Dreamwalk Blue: The Solitude Sessions
by Viola
Summary: The cop-out ending to Dreamwalk Blue. Part 4 of 5.
1. Session 1: Kind of Blue

So, I finally admitted to myself that _Dreamwalk Blue_ will never actually be finished in its current incarnation. But I needed closure, for the characters if not the plot. So if you'd like to know what eventually happens to Albus, June, Hayden, Tom, Metis, et al, this is for you. If you were only in it for the mysterious hijinks... go on ahead and write your own endings, kids. I don't mind.

**Dreamwalk Blue: The Solitude Sessions (1/5)**

**Session 1: Kind of Blue**

_For me, I'm gonna end this misery_

_My man has left me_

_And I can't face the music_

_Without singin' the blues_

Albus came back from Albania without Jack.

They brought him back alone and bleeding, half-conscious and hallucinating. He'd been in the caves under Fier for more than a month.

June hardly recognized him. He was clean-shaven and too thin. They'd cut his hair, shaved it close to the skull in uneven strokes. She could see each bone in his hand outlined sharply beneath the skin. She took his hand anyway, sitting next to him in his hospital room. His eyes fluttered under blue-tinged lids, darting back and forth in some sort of dream state.

"You're not here," he said to her the first time he opened his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't do this to me. It isn't fair."

When he lapsed back into sleep, she went and found a healer.

"He's seeing things."

"Yes, he is," the healer said, making a note on a list and not looking up at her, "and no surprise, with as much opium as he's ingested over the past few weeks. It'll be awhile before he's anything approaching lucid again."

He recovered more quickly than anticipated, though, just in time for Jack Seward's funeral. It probably wasn't a coincidence.

She held his trembling hand as they buried an empty casket. He was still sick from the opium, pale and constantly shaken with tremors, but he insisted on being at the graveside, standing there and bearing witness for Jack.

It didn't rain during the service, but it did later that afternoon. The rain pounded against the window of June's bedroom while Albus pulled at the fastenings on her dress. She knew they shouldn't, not so soon, but something in her couldn't refuse him. Afterward, he went out into the rain and walked for more than an hour alone.

It was the start of a pattern. He either clung to her or pushed her away, depending on his mood, and his moods changed sharply, suddenly. He was mercurial but never cruel, he never raised his voice, he never hurt her feelings -- not on purpose. He had the eyes of a man who'd seen war, but she wanted to shake him hard and remind him that she'd seen it too.

"It's not the same thing," he said, the one time she was brave enough to speak the words out loud.

It wasn't the same. But she'd bled and cried and lost as much as he had. It wasn't the same, but it was equal.

They went on that way, though. They tried to go on. They walked through their lives, holding onto one another, sitting across from each another at meals, one waiting for the other at cafes and on the corners of London streets.

It wasn't enough.

She realized it suddenly one day, kneeling in her parents' garden beside her mother, and let the seedling she'd been helping to plant fall to the dirt.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Mother," she said, fighting a sudden urge to cry. "Everything is just fine."

But, of course, it wasn't.

Eventually, gently, she tried to let him go. He begged her not to, and she said that maybe they just both needed some time.

He slammed the door when he left. And when he left, she walked into her bedroom and got her suitcase down from the closet shelf.

She resigned her post at the Ministry and took off traveling. She was aimless at first, wandering through Portugal, Spain, the south of France. The continent hadn't yet recovered from the war, though she was surprised to find pockets of life and color and joy in unexpected places.

It gave her hope.

Hayden eventually caught up with her in Gibraltar. He was sitting at her regular table in the hotel dining room, looking very tanned and pleased with himself, with an open bottle of Bordeaux and a pair of wine glasses.

"I got tired of waiting," he said.

"You were waiting?"

He stood up and pulled out her chair for her. "Shocking, isn't it?"

He sat back down and poured her a glass of wine. "I ordered a bottle. I hope that's all right."

"As though I would pick a fight with you over your choice of _wine_…" June shook her head. "What are you doing here?"

"As I said, I was tired of waiting. Two days ago I was sitting all alone at my club, and I realized how very, very dull things have been without you. So I went to see your mother, found out where you were staying and made my way here. Voila." He spread his hands wide and smiled at her. "I love the hotel, by the way. Lots of local color."

"It's a British hotel. It's not as though I've wandered off into the wilds of Morocco."

"It's a British hotel, but it's also a Muggle one." He winked at her. "You've gone native."

"Like you've never." The truth was, she wanted to be as far away from home, and anyone she might know, as possible.

"Drink your wine." He nodded in the direction of her glass. "I want your opinion. I think it's a little too earthy to go with the Chateaubriand."

The wine, of course, was perfectly fine. But as she told him so, June realized how much she'd actually missed him.

* * *

There were white tigers in Metis' head and sharp-beaked blackbirds in her hair.

Tom saw snakes, though he shakily assured her that none of what they were seeing was actually real. It certainly felt real, but she believed simply because Tom said it was so. He also said that it would pass soon, and that things would be as they once were.

That last part she didn't believe, simply because she knew better.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror one muggy afternoon, rain threatening on the unfamiliar horizon. Her hair clung around her face in damp strands, her skin pale and her eyes wide and dark. She'd aged ten years, a hundred, a thousand. She didn't know herself anymore.

Night was full or terrors during those first few weeks. Birds tore at her flesh, her face, her belly, waking her from sleep in sobs and wails the pillow couldn't muffle.

"I'm going to die."

Tom held her head and said, "Not yet, and not like this."

They lived a long nightmare, shut away from the world. Even when the hallucinations began to ease, Metis still dreamed while waking. At first she'd seen birds and claws and spiders and things that lived beneath rocks. Now, instead, she saw memories -- and not all of them her own. People and places from the past, superimposed over the now, set in rhythm to the ticking of a clock.

She saw her mother with lines around her eyes and tears on her face. She saw her father, long-dead and looking just the way he had the last time Metis could remember him ever saying her name. She saw Professor Dumbledore, younger than she'd ever known him, not handsome exactly but good and strong and happy. A blonde girl with bobbed hair and a red scarf reached out to him with a smile and held his hand. She saw a dark-haired little boy and a man in an army uniform, one from the first war, from before she'd been born. She saw Jack Seward, attractive and smiling, shaking her hand for the first time. She saw Jack again later, on fire and trying not to scream.

She screamed then, waking Tom, and they lay together, shivering even though the room was hot.

Later, when they were better (though still not whole, and she wondered if they ever would be) it finally occurred to her to ask where they were.

"Istanbul," Tom said.

"What are we doing in Istanbul?"

His hair was damp and clean, and he was getting dressed for the first time in weeks.

"There's a man I want to meet."

* * *

The day after he realized June was gone, possibly for good this time, Albus went to Jack's grave, even though he knew Jack wasn't really there. Jack wasn't _anywhere_, his body burned to ash by Grindelwald, and just thinking about it made him want to slay that monster all over again. One death wasn't good enough to wipe Grindelwald from the face of the earth, to get his voice out of Albus' head.

_You're already dead, all of you. You were born to die, you were born for this. You were born to play your part, and then time and destiny will have no further use for you._

He could still taste opium in the back of his throat, smoke and honey and the sweet decay of creeping death. The worst of the withdrawal had passed, and he hadn't been there that long in the first place, but he wasn't sure it would ever leave him. Not completely.

He was sure the dreams never would.

He dreamed more now than he ever had, more deeply, more vividly, more colorfully. He dreamed his own memories: sharp and bright moments from his youth, the dull and foggy fragments of the more recent past.

He kept dreaming one memory above all the others, clearer, closer, more painful. Jack standing in his office, his suit coat tossed over the back of a chair, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie yanked distractedly to one side.

"_See, I'd recommend we kill this guy before he tries to take over the world, but who's going to listen to me?"_

"_I will."_

The moment of decision, the point of no return for the pair of them. Jack had laughed, slugged him on the shoulder and called him 'brother.' Even once things had gone to hell, Jack treated him like a brother, like a friend. All Albus had been able to give him in return had been hazy guesses, an old book, some suspect translations and a pair of treacherous traveling companions.

* * *

They'd done what they set out to do, all right. Too bad Albus had been so wrong – about everything.

They found the healer, Hekim, in a crowded marketplace, much like every other marketplace in the city.

Metis still felt unsteady on her feet, but Tom had regained his drive, his confidence, the color in his cheeks. He held her hand tightly as they walked through the streets, nearly dragging her from her feet in his haste.

Hekim's shop was behind green and gold hangings, an oil lamp flickering against one wall. Tiny bottles lined another. A tapestry depicting one a goddess with the face of a woman and the tail of a snake hung across the back of the shop.

"Shahmeran the snake, the goddess of wisdom and keeper of secrets," Hekim said when he caught her staring. "It was said once that to eat of her flesh meant eternal life and the cure of all ills."

"But not anymore?" Tom asked, with the slightest raise of one eyebrow.

"Some still believe it, but there are far fewer than there used to be. Possibly because Shahmeran herself hasn't been seen in a millennia or so…"

"If she ever existed…" Tom said, trailing off expectantly.

"Are you expecting proof?" Hekim said. "Then perhaps you already know what you're going to find here."

He walked over to a large basket and pulled open the lid.

"Nagas," he said, nodding sagely. "These are Shahmeran's children, or so the legend goes. Feed them, teach them and they will grow large and intelligent. They are quite valuable. Their milk is useful in a wide variety of poisons or restoratives -- depending on your wishes."

Tom reached into the basket, speaking softly to the snakes until one approached his outstretched hand.

"How much is she?"

Hekim offered a price, and Tom barely haggled before handing over his money.

"But this isn't what you were looking for," Metis said.

He let the tiny snake curl around his wrist.

"No, but it's a start."

* * *

"This is your idea of a holiday?"

"You said you wanted to wander off into the wilds of Morocco."

June pushed her hat up off her face so she could glare at Hayden more effectively. "I said absolutely no such thing."

"You did. Over dinner, in the dining room at The Rock. Despite the Bordeaux, I remember it quite clearly."

They were south of Marrakech and it was well past midday, the sun very high and hot above them, and Hayden had just given their guide an extra forty dirham to lead them out further into the sand dunes where he wanted to spend the night.

"It will be gorgeous. We'll sleep under the stars."

"With the snakes and the scorpions."

"Oh, I doubt they haves those here." A pause. "Do you think they have those here?"

"I never in a million years would have imagined this," June said. Behind her, one of the camels snorted as though in agreement. "You said, 'Travel with me, darling. Won't it be fun?' And I, stupidly perhaps, took you for the sort of man for whom traveling meant five-star hotels, room service and port on the veranda after supper."

"That is how I like to travel, six days out of seven. But today, my darling, we're going to have an adventure."

"I don't think I want an adventure."

He looked up at her, surprised. "You ran off into the middle of a _war_, but you're afraid to spend the night with me on a sand dune?"

June pushed the brim of her hat back into place in defeat. "In the war, I had a gun."

"And we do now, as well. I have my father's old Webley. It's probably rusted through, and I've no idea whether it could actually kill anybody anymore, but it's probably enough to make your garden variety desert brigand think twice. And if we find ourselves in truly life-threatening danger, we can always just curse whatever it is into oblivion."

"Assuming you can still shoot straight with a wand. When was the last time you actually had to cast a spell for yourself?"

"Oh, shut up and get on your camel," he said, good-naturedly.

* * *

The summer went slowly.

Albus burned his nose out on the river and wrote a well-received paper on the transfiguration of milk bottles into magnifying glasses. His hands shook less and he put weight back on. His hair grew back and he let it curl around his collar. He could have charmed it, made it grow more quickly, but instead he let it come back in its own time. Most days he didn't even think about Fier or the darkness under its streets. He stopped craving smoke and sleep, he stopped waking up with a start, he stopped expecting to see Jack around every corner.

He still walked around with a dull ache in his chest, though.

He'd failed. He'd failed Jack, he'd failed himself. He'd even failed Tom. He wasn't sure what had happened to Tom or Metis, after. All he'd been told was that they hadn't been found alongside him, though that's where they ought to have been. He knew in his gut that they were still alive.

All those concerns were secondary, though, just pressure on a wound that was already deep.

He missed June so acutely it felt dying a little bit, piece by piece, every day. After awhile, that dull ache turned into a kind of dull rage that settled behind his temples.

He wrote her letters that he never sent. He imagined what he would say to her when (if) she came back. He imagined her sailing in the Mediterranean or on some island in the South Pacific. In his head she was always smiling, suntanned and happier without him.

He learned to hate her a little bit, that vision of her he carried around in his head.

She was in his dreams -- in those sharp, bright dreams of his childhood, and in the sunlit, breezy dreams of his adolescence. After awhile the younger her was the only version of her he could bear to think about: lazy, long-limbed, all of fourteen, waiting for him in a hammock behind her parents cottage at the shore.

She'd been his friend then, only and always his friend, and he found he missed that more than anything.

* * *

There were poppy fields outside Kabul, acres of them stretching away into the distance. Metis wanted to lay down in the Technicolor red flowers and sleep without dreaming.

Her dreams were quieter since Albania, though, and she was grateful for that.

Other things were quieter, too, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She and Tom stayed in a small but elegant hotel in the city. The magical district was mostly hidden away behind the crumbling walls of Kabul's back alleys, though in a place like this barriers between magical and mundane were less distinct.

She watched Tom during those long days in Kabul, nearly always bent over books or lost in silent reflection. He spent his afternoons in coffeehouses, speaking with learned men. He spent his evenings in study, or discussion, or experimenting with charms and potions.

"Talk to me," Metis said one night, their room lit only by oil lamps, the shadows flickering strangely across Tom's books and parchment scrolls.

"What about?" He didn't look up from his writing.

"Nothing. Anything. Talk to me like you used to."

"We're not the same as we were then."

And that was what Metis feared.

"I don't know if I can do this, then," she said. "If we're not the same anymore, I don't know if I can be what you need me to be."

"That isn't true," he said, but without the passion he might once have shown for her.

Without him -- if he didn't love her anymore (if he never _had_) -- what was she? What was even the point of her?

Despite this, Metis' days were not entirely empty. She made friends, after a manner, with the wives and mistresses of the men Tom knew. Most of them were shallow, silly women, talented only in the arts of gossip and the passing of time.

Afareen, on the other hand, was a seer, the wife of some minor official in the wizard hierarchy. She took a liking to Metis. At least, Metis thought it was a liking. With Afareen it was sometimes hard to tell.

"You aren't stupid," Afareen said. "Not like so many English girls I've seen."

It was afternoon -- sometime in late August, Metis thought, but time had ceased to move in ordinary ways for her. They were sitting in the walled garden behind Afareen's husband's house.

A servant brought out a tray of mint tea, and Metis said, "Thank you, I think."

"I only bring it up, because it makes me wonder." They paused, and Afareen poured tea for them both. She took a long drink and then smiled. "It makes me wonder what an intelligent girl like you is doing with that boy."

"Tom?"

"No, the _other_ boy you trail after like a lost kitten." She paused. "He's certainly handsome and ambitious, and possessing some not inconsiderable charm... but you can do better."

"Better?" Metis echoed.

"He doesn't love you the way he ought. I don't think he really loves anyone but himself."

"I've known him since I was a child," Metis said, ignoring the small, doubting voice in her head that had been growing louder of late. "He's the only one I've ever wanted."

Afareen smiled, revealing a row of sharp, white teeth. "Well, there's your first problem-"

"I don't think you understand-"

"Oh, I understand. Better than you do, probably. He certainly has the best of all worlds with you, doesn't he? Unquestioning devotion in all he does, and all he asks you to do. But what do you get in return?"

"I've never asked for anything in return."

"Maybe you ought to." Afareen put down her teacup. "And if he doesn't give you something, if he isn't willing to give you what you want, then you'll know. Then you'll be able to decide what it is you want."

"I already _know_ what I want."

"Things change," she said. "Things change and everything has its time. Did you think you would be a child forever? Did you think that he would?"

"I didn't think-" Metis began.

"I can teach you to be yourself, to be your own woman, if you'll let me. You can't continue to rely on him."

Metis stared into her cup, at the dregs and leaves, but didn't respond.

"It's time to grow up."

* * *

Late summer found them in Alsace-Lorraine, because Hayden said he had a sudden passion for the Riesling. That particular day found them sitting on the terrace of Domaine Amie, with one bottle of Riesling open between them and another in reserve on ice.

They were, needless to say, somewhat pleasantly drunk.

"Perhaps," June said, "it was a bad idea to sit in the sun all morning, drinking wine on an empty stomach."

"Nonsense," Hayden replied. "That nice fellow over there," he waved at one of the vineyard workers, "assured me that this is how the locals start every day."

"I think he was having you on."

"Nice excuse, though, wasn't it?"

"Pardon," someone said from behind them.

June put a hand up to shade her eyes. It was the vineyard owner's wife, holding a small basket of fruit and cheese, and looking supremely amused.

"Hello, then," Hayden said, turning the full force of his smile on her.

She shook her head, smiling back, handed him the basket and said, "Tu vraiment devrais manger."

Somewhat perplexed, Hayden accepted the food. "All right then."

She cocked her head and looked at him for another moment, before adding, "Et tu es ridiculement beau, particulièrement pour un Anglais."

"I have no idea what that was about," he said as soon as she was gone, "but I'm famished, so I guess it's good luck."

"I think she was flirting with you," June said.

Hayden folded back the blue cloth covering the basket. "Oh, that's just how the French are. They always seem like they're flirting with everyone." He paused. "Would it bother you, though, if she were?"

"If I took it into my head to be jealous of every woman -- or man, for that matter -- who flirted with you, I'd never do anything but."

"Men don't flirt with me." He sliced open a bright green apple. "Much."

"That fellow in Paris was absolutely smitten with you."

"And I only had eyes for you, much to his dismay."

"The tango _was_ a bit much. Did you have to rub it in?"

"Maybe I just wanted to tango?" He poured another glass for each of them. "Plus, I do like having people look at me, sex notwithstanding."

"Oh, I know. You're quite conspicuous."

"Admit it. It's one of the things you like best about me. I never let things get boring." He finished cutting the apple into equal halves.

"You are one of my favorite people in the whole world, though I'm not sure I'd say that's the reason…"

"Marry me," he said suddenly, handing her the apple.

"What?"

"I think," he said, looking at her so seriously that it was almost comical, "that you ought to marry me."

She took the fruit from him, but said nothing.

"I realize that I'm drunk and a fool, but I'd still like an answer."

"No."

"Not _that_ answer. Try again."

"Hayden-" She knew she ought to be very distressed by this turn of events. But, frankly, it wasn't entirely unexpected -- and, also, she was just a bit drunk.

"I think I'll just keep asking until I get the answer I want," Hayden said, musing to himself. He turned back to face her. "You've no objection to my proposing to you several times a week, do you?"

In spite of herself, June laughed. "If I did, would that stop you?"

He smiled crookedly. It was a smile that had conquered debutantes, wealthy dowagers and other men's wives. "Not a bit. You know how I am once I've set my mind that I want something."

"I am intimately familiar with your whims and follies, yes."

"I'd hardly call wanting to marry you a folly," he said, and then fell silent.

She was looking out across the valley, when Hayden spoke again, his voice suddenly very close and very soft in her ear, "I don't suppose you'd reconsider? Marrying me? It is the season for it after all."

"It is, isn't it?" June said, the afternoon around them warm and clear. "But I can't, Hayden."

"Pity. I can't help thinking you would make a lovely bride."

"What's brought this all on?"

He shrugged, hands in his pockets and shoulders slouched. "I simply can't think of anyone I'd rather marry."

"Well-" That was not the answered she'd expected. "That's lovely, Hayden. I can't tell you what that means to me."

"But the answer is still no?"

"Still no."

"Well, I suppose I _should_ wait a bit before I ask again. How's Tuesday for you?

She smiled. "I never have quite gotten the hang of Tuesdays."

"Ah, so there's every chance that I'll catch you off-balance. Excellent."

He smiled at her again -- his real smile, the genuine one only a few people in the world got to see. June always considered herself very lucky to catch a glimpse of it.

"Shall we go home?" he asked, reaching a hand out to her. She took it.

"Yes. I think it's probably time that we went back."


	2. Session 2: Stormy Weather

**Session 2: Stormy Weather**

_If you don't come tonight  
Think you'll give me a fright  
Tell you what I will do  
I'll put on my best gown  
And go painting this town  
Baby, I don't cry over you_

England was rainy, grey and slightly disappointing upon their return.

It was the second week of September and they'd arrived two days earlier at Southampton. No one met them at the dock – not that June had really expected anyone to – and Hayden had hired a car to take them back to London.

"Might as well end this adventure in style," he'd said, heaving her steamer trunk into the boot himself. "Unless you'd rather just disappear with a wink and a pop...?"

"Not at all. Let's make a proper end of it."

The truth was, now that they were back, she wasn't really in any sort of hurry to be home.

But eventually they had arrived home, with rain falling outside and the lights somewhat suspiciously low inside Hayden's townhouse.

"More brandy?" he asked, waving the decanter in her general direction.

"No, Hayden, thank you."

"Marry me?"

"No, Hayden, but thank you," she said placidly, taking a sip from her glass.

"Next Tuesday, then?"

"Next Tuesday," she agreed. "Assuming, of course, that you still want to ask."

"Anything could happen, of course, but I'm rather sure I will want to ask."

They were already at four Tuesdays and counting. She kept expecting him to get bored and find another way to needle her, but it hadn't happened yet.

"I think I might go to Hogwarts tomorrow," she said suddenly, unsure what made her voice the thought aloud.

"Really?" Hayden raised an eyebrow. "Well, I thought you might want to at some point, but this seems awfully soon. Don't you think?"

"I think- I think I ought to just get it over with. Face him and see what happens."

"Now see here," he said, vacating his chair and coming to kneel in front of her. "Go see him if you must," he took her hands in his, "but don't you dare apologize for doing what you thought was the right thing for you."

"Hayden-"

"Promise me, darling."

She managed a smile. "I think you _want_ him to toss me out on my ear."

He didn't smile back. "Never," he said seriously. "I don't understand why you want him, but you do. All_ I_ want, my darling, is for you to finally be happy. If that means old Dumbledore, then so be it."

* * *

For the first time in his life, Albus had begun to question his fitness to teach. The world had lost some of its blurred edges, some of the distance it had held for him since Albania, and that was good. He felt more like himself than he had since Jack's death, though that wasn't really saying much. His students, though, remained at a far remove from him. He couldn't reach them; didn't understand them. Their young lives, full of possibility and hope for the future, were completely alien to him.

He hid it well - at least, he hoped he did - but he wasn't sure how much longer he could go on.

It was a Thursday, late in the afternoon, with rare fall sunlight slanting in through the windows of his office. A shadow crossed the open doorway, blocking out some of the light, but he chose to ignore it, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

"Hello, Albus," June said, and brought the world crashing down around him.

It was a moment before he could regain his composure. When he did, all he could find to say was, "Why are you here?"

She sat down across the desk from him. "I thought we might have a talk."

"What on earth could we possibly have to talk about?"

She looked undeniably lovely, much as he'd imagined. He tried not to think about all the dreams he'd had about her while she'd been gone. He thought instead about all the letters he'd written to her, filled with bitter words, burned instead of sent.

"I understand that you're angry, but I'm not going to apologize for leaving. What I did was the best thing for both of us."

"Something you decided all by yourself," he said bitterly. "How convenient."

"You weren't in any shape to-"

"What is it you want, exactly?" he interrupted.

"I just-" She watched him intently. "I wanted to know how things stand between us."

"You want to know how things stand?" He laughed sharply. "Then know this: I'm through, June. I'm done with you."

"All right."

That stopped him for a moment. She noticed.

"Did you think I was going to cry? Beg? Make a scene? Did you really think it never occurred to me that you might not want me back? I'd have to be a fool." Her voice didn't even waver.

"You're so damned cold," he said suddenly, surprising even himself. But it was true, and it was the thing he hated most about her. Even now, with her heart's blood all over his office floor, she wouldn't show it. Couldn't.

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and balled her hands into fists to stop them shaking. "I'm sorry, Albus. I shouldn't have come here. It was selfish, and a mistake."

She stood.

"I wanted- I wanted to see whether we could fix things between us. I want you to forgive me, but I can see that's going to take some time."

"So that's how this is going to be?" He stood as well, leaning over the desk, emphasizing his height advantage. She took a tentative step back. "You get to be the martyr? You left me, while I was injured and grieving, to go on _holiday_, to circle the globe with another man… and you expect… what? Pity? You are incredible."

"That is not how it happened at all. Hayden hardly qualifies as 'another man'…"

"I'm not _blind_, June."

"If I wanted to be with him, I'd be with him. I wanted _you_. I loved you, I couldn't stop loving you." Her voice finally broke. "I tried to run away. I tried to put this all behind me because I thought it was better, but I can't-"

He couldn't listen to this anymore. If he let her keep speaking, he'd say something or do something he'd regret.

"Go," he said, coming out from behind the desk and taking her by the arm. "This isn't- Just go."

June tried to twist out of his grasp and he had the perverse pleasure of seeing her wince in pain.

"Please-"

"Stop," he said. "Leave. Now."

He released her and she stumbled toward the door without looking back at him again.

He fled as well, shaken by his own anger, shaken by the lack of control he had over his emotions since Albania. He walked; he didn't run, but he had to _get out_, away, heading blindly toward the trees at the edge of the grounds as he'd done just once before. He'd been very young then, cut to the bone by his father's disapproval over some trivial school matter. At the time, it had seemed like the end of the world. At the time, June had followed after him, cleaned his puffy, red face with her crisp white handkerchief and told him exactly where she thought his father ought to go.

_That miserable old bastard. You're going to become twice the man he is, and he hates you for it. That's all it is._

"Hello, Albus," a voice said, just as he reached the tree-line. "You look ghastly… not that that's anything new."

Professor Ivey was sitting behind her greenhouses, smoking a cigarette. She scooted over, inviting him to sit. He hesitated and she gave him an appraising look, one that said she had his number and wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"Hello, Brionne." He sat beside her, a bit reluctantly. "Ghastly?"

"Ghastly," she confirmed, fumbling in the crisp, white jacket she wore over her dress. After a moment, she held her cigarette case out to him.

"I don't usually…"

"Take it."

He did, and managed to cough only a little when she lit the cigarette for him.

"One would think you put nothing but bubbles in that pipe of yours," She paused, cocking her head. "You don't…?"

"I _don't_. I've just never much liked cigarettes. Pipe smoke is entirely different."

"I suppose," she said, not sounding particularly convinced.

They sat in silence for a moment. Brionne's shoulders slumped forward slightly as she smoked. Albus inhaled and thought longingly of the bottle of whiskey he had hidden in a drawer back in his rooms. Perhaps it would dull the edges a little.

"It will get better, you know," she said, exhaling and turning to look at him.

"What will?"

"Everything," she said and gestured expansively with her cigarette.

"You don't even know what's wrong with me."

"You're right. I don't, but it doesn't matter. Not much, anyway." She paused. "I've three brothers, you know, in London. One was too young for the fighting, but the other two…" She inhaled again. "At first, I was just so relieved that they came back alive. Now, of course, I realize that things are significantly more complicated than that."

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, don't be. The only reason I mention it is because it means I _do_ have some idea what you're going through."

"I didn't go to war."

"Not in the usual way, perhaps, but I know the signs."

"The signs?"

"Of shellshock. It's far more common than most people are likely to admit, so there's no use going all manly and stoic."

Albus smiled slightly, in spite of himself. "I assure you, I had no such plan."

"There's talk, of course, about you and Jack Seward and that dark wizard in Albania. But no one knows what actually happened." She stubbed out her cigarette.

"What talk?"

"Well, I hear they're going to give you a medal for it."

That was news to Albus, but it didn't seem all that farfetched.

"And I've heard Seward is dead, though with fellows in his line one can never be sure…"

"He's dead," Albus said bluntly. "Make no mistake."

Brionne was watching him intently. "Well, I thought it might be something like that. I'm sorry you had to see it." She paused. "There's no potion or pill or magic herb that will cure this, Albus, but it _will_ get better. You just need to talk to someone. It doesn't have to be me. Just _somebody_."

He sighed. "That's the trouble, though, isn't it? There isn't anyone left that I can talk to. Not about this."

Brionne leaned over and took him firmly by the wrist. "Then _find _someone… before it eats you up anymore than it already has."

* * *

_The Welsh Green_ was a dive, the sort of wizard pub that had been around as long as anyone could remember - and looked it. It was the sort of place plainly designed to appeal to those serious about their drinking, and tonight June was quite serious about getting seriously drunk.

"Scotch rocks," she said to the kid behind the bar, who looked too young to drink in the place let alone serve the drinks.

She lit a cigarette and leaned back on the barstool, knowing that this was exactly the wrong way to deal with her problems and not caring for once.

"You okay, lady?" the bartender asked, sliding her drink across the bar.

"Why do you ask?"

"You don't exactly look like our usual sort of clientele," the kid said, giving her a once over.

June downed her scotch and turned to look at the pub's other patrons. There were a half-dozen working-class wizards in one corner, a group of kids barely out of Hogwarts toasting pints of bitter in another and several lonely-looking souls who'd clearly been at the bar since morning.

"I suppose I am a bit out of my element," she said and signaled for another drink.

"You aren't the first, though usually we only get your type in here when something really horrible has happened to them."

"I don't about _horrible _exactly, but I do feel pretty rotten."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not especially," she said, draining her glass in one go. "Just keep pouring drinks, and you and I will get along just fine."

By sunset, she was completely blotto.

"Listen, miss," the bartender said kindly. "I don't think you ought to have anymore." He paused, as though expecting her to protest. When no objection was forthcoming, he added, "Can I call someone for you? Someone who can come to take you home?"

She laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it all, and then gave him a name. It seemed only mere moments before he was there.

"Now, then, what's this?" Hayden said softly, appearing out of nowhere and taking the seat beside her.

"Am I ever glad to see you," the bartender said.

"June," Hayden chucked a fist under her chin and turned her face toward his, "What happened? As though I couldn't guess…" He turned to the bartender. "What on earth has she been drinking? Turpentine?"

"Take your pick, mister," he replied, sweeping a hand over the neatly-lined bottles. "I think she's had a bit of each.

"I should never have gone to see him…" she began, and found she couldn't make the rest of the words come.

"Now, now, darling. You've still got me," he said gamely, attempting to smile. He picked her up, and she buried her face against his neck and began to cry softly. "Yes, I know. Not really a consolation prize, is it?"

In no time at all, they were stumbling up the steps to Hayden's townhouse. He half-carried, half-dragged, her into the bedroom without even bothering to turn up the lights.

"June? Come on, off with this." He chuckled softly. "I think this is the first time I've ever undressed a woman with purely honorable intentions." A pause. "Well, mostly honorable."

In spite of herself, June began to laugh.

"Now that's better. Here, you'd best put this on."

He let go of her briefly to get something from the dressing table and the floor tilted dangerously away from her again. She grabbed wildly at him and he helped her gently back to sit on the bed.

"There now. I won't let you fall." He pulled something soft over her shoulders and began doing up the buttons. "These will probably be too large for you, but I'm not in the habit of keeping ladies clothing on hand." Another pause. "At least, not anything that would be appropriate to the occasion."

Finally she was able to lie back on the soft pillows. Hayden pulled the covers up over her, tucking them beneath her chin, and took up position in an overstuffed chair in the corner.

"Good night, darling," he said, and didn't leave.

* * *

Albus was by nature an early riser. He liked the silence in the castle before the students were awake. He liked to sit and read by the lake, or grade papers in the quiet morning hours in his office. That morning, however, his solitude was broken by a sharp and insistent knocking on his office door.

"I say, old boy… I know you're in there," a familiar voice called from the corridor.

He got up from his desk, wondering what exactly he'd done to deserve this, and let Hayden Fairborne in.

"Here at Hogwarts, a closed office door is generally considered a polite cue that the occupant is not receiving visitors…"

Hayden waved the words away, looking around the office with undisguised curiosity.

"Nonsense. I came all this way to talk to you."

"Whatever for? I always imagined you were the sort who never got up before eleven."

"Learn something new every day, don't you?" Hayden said coolly and flung himself into the chair across from Albus' desk.

"I asked you what you want…"

"Oh, thanks. I'm just fine. No coffee for me."

Albus sighed heavily. "Would you like something?"

Hayden brightened. "Well, now that you mention it, I could use some refreshment. Maybe a spot of tea? A scone or two?"

Albus rang a bell, calling for one of the house elves to bring tea.

"All right. _Now_, what do you want?"

Hayden looked up, surprised. "I'm here to talk about June, of course. All the evidence at hand indicates that you've chucked her."

"Why do you care? I'd always gotten the impression that you didn't particularly like me."

"I don't. But I like June, and she's unhappy. When she's unhappy, so am I - and that really puts me all out of sorts… Oh, hello there, little fellow."

A tiny house elf ran between them, carrying a tray laden with scones with jam and a giant silver tea service.

"I'm a bit in love with her," he said off-handedly, picking up a cup of tea. "I have been for rather awhile, as a matter of fact."

This admission was not entirely unexpected, and Albus said so.

"I suppose I haven't been exactly subtle about it, have I?" Hayden said, looking a bit chagrined. "Nevertheless, it's _you_ she loves."

"You don't understand…"

"Oh, I understand perfectly." He crossed his arms over the lapels of his well-cut jacket. "She hurt you badly, and now you want to punish her. Well, good job of it, old boy. She's miserable."

"Is she? Well, I'm sure you can think of a way to take her mind off it. Perhaps another tour of West Indies would do the trick…"

"We never actually made it that far," Hayden murmured, the slightest of smiles playing around his lips.

The fragile hold Albus had on his patience failed him abruptly. "Oh, just get out."

"Wait a minute-"

He grabbed Hayden by one sleeve, and propelled him toward the door. "Out. Go home. Tell her I've already forgotten all about her. Tell her to get on with her life already."

"You may regret it," Hayden said mildly, tugging his sleeve from Albus' grasp.

"I don't. I won't."

"Come on now… Can't we all be adults about this?"

He slammed the door in Hayden's face.

"Well, I guess not," came the reply from the other side.

* * *

The bed was enormous, the sheets robin's egg blue and expensive. June sat up, the too-long sleeves of Hayden's tailored pajamas slopping untidily over her hands.

"Back in the land of the living, are we?"

She turned and found herself looking directly into a pair of hazel eyes: the man himself.

Hayden was sitting beside her, fully dressed and atop the coverlet, holding a tray. "Breakfast," he said, "and a hair or two of the dog that bit you."

"Oh, Hayden. No. That sounds dreadful."

He ignored her and poured champagne into her orange juice. "It will help. Now be a good girl and take your medicine."

"About last night-" she began.

"I'm one step ahead of you." He wasn't looking at her. "The less said, the better."

"I was dreadful. I'm so sorry."

"No apologies. These things do happen, though rarely to you. Now if you were to make a _habit_ of trying to drown your unhappiness in expensive Finnish vodka…"

"Don't say 'vodka,'" she said, feeling suddenly very ill.

"It was, at least, a rather nice bottle." He smiled, though it didn't quite reach all the way to his eyes.

"What is it? There's something else."

"Nothing that can't wait until you've finished your eggs. I've had the kitchen make a stout country breakfast for you. It ought to help." He stood. "Breakfast, and then I'll have Michael draw you a nice hot bath and see about some fresh clothes for you."

June ate as much as she could stand, though she had to admit that the champagne eased the ache in her head a bit – not that it was a remedy she was going to make a habit of. Not that her behavior from the night before was something she was going to make a habit of.

When she emerged from her bath, Hayden's valet Michael was waiting for her. His posture was poker-straight and his expression entirely neutral, though she thought she could sense a bit of empathy for her plight.

"Feeling better, miss?" he asked.

"Much," she said. "Thank you."

He indicated a tiny, glass bottle with an ornate quartz stopper. He'd brought the bottle in on a tray along with a pitcher of water.

"If I might be so bold as to suggest…" He pulled out the stopper and tipped a few drops of a thick pink liquid into her water glass. "I think this might improve your situation considerably."

She drank it, and felt better almost immediately.

"Michael, you really are a treasure. Does Hayden pay you enough?"

"I am more than adequately compensated for my services," he said, though with the faintest hint of an amused smile. "Now, Mr. Fairborne is waiting for you downstairs."

She found Hayden in the morning room, drinking black coffee and frowning darkly at the morning edition of _The Daily Prophet_. He brightened when he saw her, though.

"Hello, my darling. Back to normal, I take it? You look as fresh and lovely as ever."

"I'm better, thank you." She sat, accepting a cup of coffee. "I suppose I ought to tell you what happened yesterday. After all, you-"

"He's very angry with you…" Hayden said, glancing back down at the paper," and with himself, I think."

"And you know this because…?"

"I went to see him."

She set her cup down. "Hayden-"

"It's done." He folded the paper. "So no use protesting. He kicked me unceremoniously, incidentally. But not before he made it very clear that he's not in any condition to be making important decisions about his own life." He reached out and took her hand. "Don't fret, darling. All's not lost."

Somehow, though, June didn't feel comforted.

She thought about sending Albus a note, to see if Hayden's visit had persuaded him to speak to her – even if only to express his displeasure at Hayden's stunt. Somehow, though, when she went to out ink to paper no words would come.

Instead, late that afternoon, she sat by her fireplace and hoped he'd answer when he heard her voice.

Much to her surprise, Albus wasn't in his office. Someone was, though.

"Oh, hello," she said.

Brionne Ivey looked up from a stack of papers she was filing away. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry. I was looking for Albus. Maybe I have the wrong-"

"No, you're in the right spot. I'm afraid Albus isn't here. He's taken a few days to visit an old family friend." She looked sympathetic. "He asked me to put a few of his things in order."

"Oh, I see. Do you have any idea when…?"

"I'm sorry. I don't." She came over and sat beside the hearth. "You and I don't know each other well, so maybe it's not my place, but… He'll be back, and when he does come back, I think it will be better for both of you."

She smiled, and June managed to smile back.

* * *

Albus hadn't been to France since the end of the war. Mundane travel was still somewhat dangerous: razor wire, collapsing embankments and unexploded bombs posed threats to travelers on foot. Still, once he reached the Luberon valley he decided to walk. The long valley road wound through vineyards and fields of lavender, dotted occasionally with tiny village markets and stone chapels.

He wasn't alone on the road. His fellow travelers were displaced or searching, some shellshocked, some hoping to find missing friends or relatives safe in the countryside.

On his third morning on the road, Albus stopped in a small village market to buy fresh bread and cheese. As he was paying with the unfamiliar money, he stopped a moment to take note. There was something new on the air, something familiar. Old magic had been done here, and just the shadow of it was left.

He walked the rest of the day, until, just before sunset, he came upon a house. It was fully visible from the road, though set back away from it, at the foot of a southern-facing slope. There was something about the house, though, that caused one's gaze to slide right off it, to wander to the hills to the west, to drift back to the road.

This had to be it. Forcing his attention back to the house with an effort, he left the main road and headed toward it.

The house stood at the end of a dirt lane lined with washed white stones, just beyond an old but well-tended cherry orchard. On the slope behind the farmhouse, old vine Cabernet Sauvignon grew between newer plantings of Grenache and Syrah grapes. An old man sat on the veranda facing the vineyard grounds. He appeared to be dozing lightly over a thick book.

"Hello, Nicholas," Albus said, coming up the path to the veranda steps.

"Albus?" Nicholas Flamel said, looking up from his book and blinking. "It's certainly been a long time."

"It has." Albus wasn't quite sure how warm his welcome would be. Nicholas had taken some pains to hide himself and his wife. "You've fashioned yourself a rather nice retirement here," he paused, "though perhaps a bit beneath your skills…"

"The making of wine is alchemy at its most complex," Nicholas said, smiling out at the neat rows of vines, "and it's not as though I have need of any more silver or gold."

"I wasn't sure whether to come, whether I'd be welcome."

"You're always welcome, Albus," Nicholas stood, "though it's true that we've decided to hide ourselves away from the world. We have our wine, our books, each other. We're happier this way. The world was becoming too much for us, things as they are."

"Things are better now."

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Are they? Well, perhaps you'd best come inside and we'll choose a nice bottle to go with a discussion of current events."

He led Albus inside the house, through a large library, one that rivaled the library at Hogwarts. The room was lined, floor to ceiling, with books, many of them so old they were hand-scribed.

"We've cellared a few nice bottles, just in case anyone that we care to see comes calling."

At this, Albus relaxed a little. Nicholas swung open a section of bookcase to reveal stairs leading down into the darkness of a wine cellar.

"Your father always wanted to make wine," he said conversationally, leading the way with surprising agility for a man of his apparent age. "Did you know that?"

"I didn't."

"I imagine there's a fair amount about him that you didn't know. He didn't make it easy, for you in particular. He was a good man, though, and a good friend."

Before Albus could reply to this, Nicholas was skimming his fingers along the racks of wine bottles, brushing away dust here and there and muttering softly to himself. Looking, apparently, for a particular bottle.

"Ah, here it is. I've a nice Grenache rosé." He pulled a bottle out of the rack. "It should be right up your alley." He started back up the steps. "Come sit and have a glass. We'll talk about whatever it is that's brought you so far."

The sun was beginning to dip below the vineyard slopes when they emerged from the house. Nicholas poured a splash of wine in Albus's glass and settled himself back in his chair.

"I would have thought," he began, waving a hand at the wine glass, "that you would've come to see me sooner."

Albus dutifully swirled the wine around his glass and took a taste.

"It's lovely. Thank you."

Nicholas nodded approvingly and poured them each a fairly sturdy glass of the rosé.

"I heard about that unfortunate business in Albania. As much as anyone's heard, I suppose. We may be a bit remote from things here, but some news still gets through." He paused. "Is that what you're here to talk about?"

"I don't know, really." Albus raised his glass absently, still looking out over the hills. "I got some advice recently from someone whose opinion I value. She told me to seek out someone I trust, someone I can talk to."

"_She_, is it?"

"It's not anything like that. She's an old and very dear friend."

"But there is a woman," Nicholas said, looking at him shrewdly. "But that's only part of the problem."

"There is a woman," Albus admitted, "and I can't tell where she ends and the rest of it begins."

"A very old and very common problem."

"I'd loved her since we were children, and now… Now I can't even look at her face for fear of what I might do."

"Another man?"

"Not exactly. Not- Well, I hope not."

"It sounds as though you've known her long enough to judge whether she would do such a thing-"

"All this war and fighting has changed everyone. I don't even know myself anymore."

Nicholas said nothing, looking thoughtful, and simply refilled their glasses.

"I've known her almost as long as I can remember," Albus continued. "Our parents had been friendly since their school days. We played together as children, went on holiday together, went to school together." He shook his head. "My father actually never liked her much," he added wryly.

"A bit of rebellion on your part then, perhaps?" Nicholas seemed to consider a moment. "You never would have talked like this with your father, would you?"

"No, I don't suppose I would have."

"And yet you've come to me, one of his oldest friends."

"I couldn't think of anywhere else to go," Albus admitted.

"Because of the other matter, perhaps?"

"Perhaps. There aren't many people I'd feel comfortable sharing that story with. The _real_ story, anyway. Not the one they want to pin a medal on me for."

"What is the real story?"

"I thought I was rather clever; thought I was onto one of the great secrets of our age."

"Were you?"

"Not in the way I thought. I had it all backwards. I cocked it up and got a brave man, a good friend, killed because of it."

Nicholas nodded, as though he already knew all this. "And what of the boy? Is he what you thought he was?"

"Worse. I underestimated him."

"And Grindelwald?"

"He got exactly what was coming to him. He was as bad as we'd feared…"

"But?"

"But by removing him, I think I've opened the door for something much worse."

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, pressing his hands together thoughtfully. "That's often the way of it."

"You say that as though this has happened before…"

"It has, and will again… and over again. I've seen it in all my long years and expect to continue seeing it in each generation."

"Then there's nothing to stop it?"

"I didn't say that," he said kindly, "just that I don't think _you're_ the one to stop it. The responsibility isn't yours, Albus. You did what you thought best, as many others have over the generations. Continue to do what you think is best, and you may have the opportunity to help put things to rights."

And that seemed to be that, as far as Nicholas was concerned.

"For now, my young friend, I would suggest that you put your own house in order."

"How can I? I don't even know myself anymore," he said again. "I don't know what I want; I don't see any hope in the future."

Nicholas looked at him with sympathy. "There's always hope, Albus," he said quietly.

"I can't see it," he replied, quickly, dismissively. "I don't seem to even want anything anymore." He paused. "There are just two things I can remember truly wanting since I was a boy: her affection and my father's approval."

"But you're not a boy anymore. You need to let go of those things, you need to allow yourself to grow up. Your father is gone, and this girl may be as well."

Feeling a bit shamed, Albus said nothing.

"You have to find a way forward," Nicholas said, "no matter what's past."

Continued in Session 3: Honeymoon Suite


	3. Session 3: Honeymoon Suite

**Session 3: Honeymoon Suite**

_You'd be so nice to come home to  
You'd be so nice by the fire  
While the breeze on high sang a lullaby  
You'd be all that I could desire_

Time passed.

As inconceivable as it had once seemed, life went on.

June abandoned her career, something that had also once seemed inconceivable, and spent her days idle, lounging on beaches and in hotels with Hayden's seemingly endless circle of friends.

"Darling, you look absolutely amazing," one of those friends (Katherine? Katerina?) was saying. "You simply must tell me where you got that dress."

"Oh, this?" June said, distracted as another of Hayden's friends – this one an Italian race car driver – pressed a glass of perfectly chilled champagne into her hand. "Hayden brought it back for me from New York."

"Lucky girl." Katherine-or-Katerina winked at her. "He is absolutely delicious. We're all supremely jealous, I hope you know."

"It isn't like that-" she began, but never finished the sentence.

"There you are, June," Hayden said, appearing seemingly from nowhere. "We've been waiting. You're the guest of honor, after all."

He reached out and grabbed her by the hand. "Excuse us, won't you? And be sure to fill up those glasses, we're about to have a toast."

"I'm so glad to see you," she said, letting him tuck her hand beneath his arm.

"Just in time to rescue you from Matteo and Katelin? I can't say I blame you. Ah, here we are…"

The dining room was aglow with candles and a crush of fashionable people, the table elaborately set and open bottles of champagne littering the sideboard. In the center of the long table, a tiered layer cake twinkled with more candles than she was entirely comfortable with.

"Happy 29th, my darling," he leaned in and kissed her briefly on the lips, "and many happy returns."

The light from the candles reflected on his features, making him seem simultaneously beautiful and dangerous. He smiled, and it only served to heighten the impression.

"Here, here," someone said, breaking the spell, and the others raised their glasses.

"For she's a jolly good fellow," Hayden said with a grin, and they all began to sing.

* * *

Just when Albus thought he'd begun to put the events of the past few years behind him, something would come along and put him right back at the beginning: a scent, a turn of phrase, a song on the wireless.

Or, just for example, the morning post.

It came at breakfast, looking quite a bit worse for wear, with stamps and seals from far-flung places. It was from Jack, a dead letter in the truest sense of the term. Albus pocketed the letter and retreated to his office, afraid to read whatever might be written inside in front of witnesses.

Once inside his office, he opened it, noting the date in upper right corner. It had been written more than a year previous, just days before they'd headed for Albania - and walked into one hell of a trap.

_Albus,_

_If you're reading this I guess it all went to hell, after all. Here's hoping I acquitted myself pretty well when we were up against it. I like to think I would, but this business is unlike anything I've seen._

_See here, I know you and so I'm willing to bet you've spent the better part of the past year torturing yourself. Well, cut it out, friend. I knew the risks and went in anyway. I'm not your responsibility, alive or dead._

_So I have to figure that there's at least a chance we've gotten this all wrong, or that we haven't planned for every eventuality or that we just have rotten luck… or, well, any number of things really. This is one eventuality I can plan for though. Take what's in this envelope and use it; you'll know what to do with it – better than I would, honestly._

_So, how to sign off on a letter like this? Till we meet again? See you soon? Hardly. I guess this will have to do instead: Good bye, Albus, and good luck._

_-Jack_

That was Jack, thorough to the end.

He upended the envelope and tipped a brass skeleton key into his hand. It had a scrap of parchment paper attached that simply read, "_Remember the rules_."

Ghosts and memories, everywhere he looked.

He'd made the mistake of glancing at his calendar that morning and realized it was June's birthday. The date was haunting him. He kept remembering, despite his best efforts, her sixteenth birthday. They'd gone to Nice on holiday – his family, the Lisbons and the Cavendishes – and stayed in a rather nice old villa on the Mediterranean.

That was the summer he'd realized his schoolboy fondness for June had turned into something more.

She hadn't noticed; maybe she simply hadn't wanted to. Of course, Johnny Cavendish had pursued her all summer as well, so perhaps he couldn't entirely blame her for not wanting to choose between them.

She wore blue to her birthday party, he remembered, a color she rarely wore, and they'd both had their first glass of real champagne. Her parents had arranged dinner and dancing, and invited all the right neighbors over to celebrate.

After the toasts had been made and the cake had been cut, the orchestra struck up a very old waltz that all the adults seemed to enjoy. Albus had gone looking for the birthday girl, who'd been conspicuous by her absence on the dance floor.

He found her out on the veranda with Johnny, who was two years older and who'd had the presence of mind to bring a bottle of champagne with him.

"Happy birthday, June," Johnny said, clinking their glasses together, "and many happy returns."

"Albus!" she said, her eyes lighting up as she caught sight of him over Johnny's shoulder. "I was looking everywhere for you."

"Clearly," he responded, a little dryly, but she was still smiling at him and it softened the sting of finding her out here with Johnny.

"I say, Johnny…" came a voice from the French doors. It was Aberforth, giving Albus a knowing look. "Jack-o is telling the most brazen lies about our final match against Ravenclaw in sixth year-"

"That villain! I'll help you set him right." He handed June the champagne bottle, taking her free hand in his. "Honor demands that I put paid to these lies straight away. Till later?"

She just smiled and let him go.

"You were looking for me?" he said, once Johnny and Aberforth had gone. "You seemed to have found someone to entertain you…"

"Oh, Johnny's all right," she said, leaning against the veranda railing and looking out over the sea. "He's harmless."

"He likes you."

"He likes _all_ the girls. He's a terrible flirt, not my sort at all." She poured another glass of champagne. "Come here and have a toast with me. It's my birthday, after all."

He obliged and leaned in next to her. "Happy birthday."

"Sweet sixteen and never been kissed," she said, laughing and possibly slightly tipsy.

"The way I hear it, you've been kissed plenty."

"I was talking," she said, toasting him with her glass, "about you."

"Now that's just mean…"

She leaned in and planted a brief kiss on his lips. "All better."

He'd been a complete goner from that moment on.

* * *

When the door finally closed on the last guest, June went and sat, a little unsteadily, on the arm of Hayden's chair.

"I think you're a bit drunk," he said.

"Just a bit. You know how it is with champagne," she smiled, "and, anyway, so are you."

"I'm not drunk, I'm relaxed. I'm," he took her by the hand and raised it to his lips, "charming."

"Oh, entirely. There isn't a woman alive who can resist you."

He gave her a positively wicked look. "Just one, at least so far."

She liked Hayden best at times like this – the quiet moments after a party, or at the end of a day's travels – just the two of them, pausing to reflect, to catch their breath. Tonight, he'd shed his dinner jacket and loosened his tie, and was looking at her with such senseless affection that she found it hard to resist the urge to ruffle his hair – though that might just have been the champagne.

The spell was broken, anyway, by the sound of the door opening.

"Ah, Michael. Thank you."

The valet bowed slightly and handed Hayden a slice of cake on a fine china plate. A single candle flickered atop it.

"What's this then?"

"You barely touched your cake before," he said.

"But I've already made my wish," she protested, laughing.

"Who says you can't have another?" Hayden asked, setting the plate down on the table between them. "It's your birthday."

"But it just isn't done."

He grinned. "All the more reason to do it, then."

"Are you ever going to grow up and tire of doing things simply because they're forbidden?"

"Oh, I do hope not…" He leaned over to light his cigarette on the flame from the candle. "And speaking of which, my offer still stands, you know. I'd like nothing better than to take you away from all this and make an honest woman of you."

"All right," June replied, still feeling a bit pliable from the champagne, before she had time to really think about what she was saying.

Hayden's cigarette tumbled onto the table and began to slowly burn through the varnish. "What?" he said, looking at her as though she'd lost her mind.

"You did say- I thought you wanted to marry me?"

"Absolutely not! Not like this. Have you gone completely mad?"

"But you _said_-"

"Hang what I said. You know how I feel about you, but I also know how you feel, and who you feel it for." He shook his head. "I may be a rotter, but I'm not a fool, not about this – and neither are you."

"It's been too long," she said. "I love him, I'll always love him, but I can't live in the past."

"June-" He reached out and touched her face.

"Maybe it's time that I moved on."

"Fine, darling, then move on." He pulled his hand away. "But perhaps consider taking it a bit more slowly?"

"Hayden-"

"Make your wish. The candle's melting."

She leaned forward to blow out the candle and, for the first time in a very long time, wished for something different.

* * *

They were in Jakarta when something changed, and Metis began to dream again.

Since Fier, since the last of the night terrors and waking dreams had left her in Istanbul, her dreams had been quiet – quieter than they'd been since she was a child, and certainly quieter than they'd been since she met Tom.

She hadn't always dreamed like that, with meaning, with intent. She could remember a time, when she was very small, when her dreams had been the way she imagined others experienced dreaming – small dreams about the mundane, the everyday, occasionally about something frightening or embarrassing. She'd had normal, manageable dreams.

Then her father died.

He died and left them, and she dreamed his death every night for a month - as though his dying had opened a door she'd never quite figured out how to close. So Fier, in a way, had brought her some long-awaited relief.

It was the rainy season in Jakarta, the days long and grey, with the steady drum of the rains on the roof. She found she didn't mind it so much, though part of her missed the crisp, thin air of Kabul. The rains here lulled her, made her sleepy, and maybe that was the difference, the reason the dreams began again.

In her heart, though, she knew that wasn't what had changed.

In her heart, she found herself wishing that she had listened to Afareen, that she'd tried harder to stop simply following Tom and find her own way.

She was afraid that she didn't have the will to do it on her own.

She thought of writing to Afareen. She thought, for the first time in more than a year, of writing to her mother. She didn't bother to write to either, though. She had the sense that whatever she put to paper, Tom would somehow find a way to read.

On that wet, humid afternoon, she lay in a makeshift hammock, fighting sleep. The night before she'd dreamt again about the Tree of Knowledge and the beginning of their world. She hadn't had that dream in years, not since that terrible winter at school when she and Tom had tried (and tried and tried) to stay apart.

She didn't want sleep, didn't have the energy to dream again. She was just so tired all the time here, unnaturally so. Eventually, she drifted off, the sweet scent of the rain and wet red clay following her into sleep.

She slept and dreamt. She dreamt a quiet place, she dreamt of lying on her back in the ocean, rocked by the waves. She dreamt of brightly colored fishes swimming placidly at her feet and soft bubbles of sea foam between her fingers.

She woke to find Tom with his snake, curled in the crook of his arm like a father doting on his first child.

"Have you given that thing a name yet?" she asked, swinging her bare feet over the side of the hammock.

"Not yet. She isn't ready for a name, not until she's a little bigger."

Metis padded into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She stood in the open door and watched the rain run off the roof in sheets, like a curtain standing between her and the outside world.

She resolved, in that moment, that things would change or she would die trying.

* * *

When they went abroad, it was usually somewhere exotic, somewhere far-flung and interesting.

Not this time.

Not that Scotland wasn't interesting, in its way. It's just that it wasn't interesting in the usual, Hayden Fairborne sense of the word.

"I'd no idea your people were Scottish, Hayden," June said, surveying the crumbling old ruin that was, rather to her surprise, a family property.

"They aren't, so I far as I know. I inherited this place from a great-uncle by marriage or some such. Sir Humboldt McNagg, if you can believe that." He looked around at the damp, sagging castle and windswept grounds, an expression on his face June had never seen before. "I like this old place, though. It's quiet; I can be at ease here."

"You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

"Oh, I hope so," he said, turning to smile at her.

She'd always been aware, with a sort of intellectual detachment, that Hayden was a very attractive man. She'd held herself apart though, unwilling to be simply another of Hayden's conquests, to be abandoned and left behind once his fancy turned elsewhere. She'd made herself see past his good looks, his charm, his money, and see the man himself. She'd made him see her, too.

He'd been her friend for a very long time – but there was something else there, too; there always had been. Albus had seen it, as much as she might always have told him he was mad. She'd known it herself, as much as she hadn't particularly wanted to see it.

"What is it?" Hayden asked, and she realized she was staring.

"Oh nothing. I'm famished. Do you have anything to eat in this old ruin?"

"Of course. Let's go have a feast fit for the lady of the manor," he said, and laced her arm through his.

Their feast consisted of cold meat, cheese, bread and a rather nice bottle of Bordeaux, sitting cross-legged on the banquet table in the drafty old dining room.

"Didn't you bring any servants?" June asked. "However will you do without them?"

"Michael's to join us tomorrow, but in the meantime…" he grinned at her. "I thought I might put you to work in the kitchen like a fairy tale princess in disguise."

"Are you going to furnish me a handsome prince as well?"

"Only time will tell on that front…"

"Either way I hope you're prepared to go hungry. You know I can't cook."

"Well, I suppose it's tinned peaches on the beach for the entire month then." He grinned at her, leaning in and stealing the last bit of Stilton from her plate. "However will we survive?"

They were saved, luckily, from that fate by the arrival of Michael the next morning. Hayden practically embraced him and shuttled him off to the kitchen to toast crumpets and make coffee.

"I invited a few more guests, my darling," he said, once they'd been comfortably installed in the breakfast room with buttered crumpets and a pot of coffee.

She twitched her paper to one side and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, it's just my second-something-something cousin, Brian, and his new wife. They're off on a grand tour and I invited them up this way to stop off for a visit."

"This was your idea of a perfect honeymoon spot?"

"Well, why not? At any rate, they arrive the day after tomorrow, and I plan to show them a perfectly lovely time. Will you help me, darling?"

"How could I resist?"

* * *

Two days later, the morning dawned bright and clear. Taking advantage of the rare sunny day, Hayden immediately proposed a pleasant walk along the beach. The shore was rocky and jagged, and June picked her way gingerly behind him. Hayden, on the other hand, loped along, surefooted and barely watching where he was going.

"Here it is- my favorite spot," he said, clambering easily up a large, craggy rock, surrounded by icy grey tide pools. He reached out a hand to her and helped her up. "What do you think? You're speechless, aren't you?"

"More like out of breath," she managed. She had to admit, though, it was lovely. The shoreline was wild and windswept; white-tipped breakers crashing onto hidden rocks. A single seabird soared overheard in the mid-morning sun.

"Why did you bring me here?" she said, after a moment. "You've had this place for years. You clearly love it here, but you've never brought me before."

Hands shoved in his pockets, he just shrugged, gazing out across the water at the horizon.

"I've never brought anyone here before."

"And now you've brought me, and invited a pair of cousins you barely know? Hayden-"

"Perhaps," he said, stretching his long legs and jumping easily up to a higher ledge on the rock. "Perhaps, I simply thought it was time for a change."

He leaned down and offered her his hand.

"If I fall, you realize that I expect you'll wait on me hand and foot while I recuperate…?"

"I'd expect nothing less." He hauled her up and June suspected she looked somewhat less than graceful. "In fact, I might wait on you hand and foot anyway… if you'll let me."

"Promises, promises."

He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it on the ledge. "If I promise you breakfast in bed for a week, will you be a good girl and come sit beside me here?"

She complied obediently, but said, "I'll expect proper coffee, you know-"

"_Michael_ will make the coffee. Will that appease you?"

"I'm quite appeased. Thank you."

After a moment, Hayden said, "Do you really want to know why I brought you here?"

"Hmm?"

"It's my last resort, my last ditch try at making you see me the way you- Well, at making you see me for what's really there."

"Oh now, honestly."

"I _am_ being honest."

"Not really. Not entirely. You've pursued me for years, but, Hayden, if we're being honest, then let's _really_ be honest. It's only ever been because I was one of the lucky few to resist your charms."

"One of just two, actually," he murmured.

"See-"

"Perhaps in the beginning," he admitted. "But, darling, it's been rather a long time since the challenge alone was the attraction.

He leaned in and kissed her chastely, but lingering slightly longer than was strictly proper.

"Hayden!" someone called from down the beach, and he pulled away.

"Jane! Brian!" he said, waving at the couple walking toward them along the shoreline. The woman took off her straw hat and waved it back at him. "Come on, June," Hayden said, offering her a hand as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "Let's go be friendly. They're a bit earlier than expected, but we have company."

Hayden's cousin Brian and his new wife, a charming but almost shockingly young thing named Jane, were, luckily, rather delightful. After dinner, the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee.

"I wasn't quite sure what to expect from Brian's cousin to be honest," Jane admitted, while June poured. "What I mean is-" She flushed a delicate pink.

"That he has a dreadful reputation? That he does, and it's almost entirely deserved." June handed over a cup and pushed the cream and sugar across the table. "But that's not the whole story of the man, not by quite a bit."

"Exactly!" Jane said. "He's rather nice-"

June smiled. "That he is."

"And he's quite clearly over the moon about you-"

June sighed. "He does have his moments."

Jane laughed. "I can't quite imagine being so blasé over the affections of a man that handsome, charming and rich- How exciting your life must be."

"Well, _I've_ had my moments, too. But, honestly, Jane dear, it's not quite as romantic as you might think."

Jane stifled a yawn. "Oh, I'm sorry! You must think I'm frightfully dull."

"Not at all! Go collect your new husband, crawl into bed and make like spoons," June laughed.

Once the newlyweds had been safely packed off to bed, June went in search of Hayden but he was nowhere to be found. Instead, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and wandered out onto the terrace.

"Is that you, June darling?" said a voice from the darkness. Hayden was slumped against one of the ancient stone bracings, hands in his pockets. "It's only fair to warn you: I'm afraid I'm quite drunk."

"So you are," she said, coming over to lean against the stones as well. "Any particular reason?"

"Listening to Brian go on in the most disgustingly lovesick manner about the joys of matrimony… well, I'm afraid I started pouring and didn't stop until he did."

"It's your own fault for inviting a pair of newlyweds to join us on holiday."

"Maybe I was hoping Brian would give his speeches to _you_, not me."

"Well, that's rich. I've already accepted you once, and you changed your mind-"

"I'm waiting," he said, gazing at her seriously, "for the _right_ answer. Not just a 'yes,' the right 'yes.'"

"Oh, Hayden. You're maddening sometimes."

"That, while true, is beside the point. Don't you see? There's never been another…" He stopped, casting around for the right words. "This isn't some passing fancy of mine. I can't risk… Oh, hell…"

He took her by the shoulders, pulled her closer, the palms of his hands warm against her skin.

"'My life has been the awaiting you, your footfall was my own heart's beat,'" he breathed into her ear.

It was ridiculous, of course: Hayden Fairborne spouting love poems. Another time, another place, she would have laughed at him.

All she managed, however, was, "Don't-"

"Don't? Don't what, my darling? Be honest?"

He kissed her, so hard she felt like she was falling. Whatever she'd expected in those occasional moments when she'd imagined what it might be like to kiss him, it wasn't this. He pulled away and left her breathless.

"Hayden-"

He leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes. "I am an ass, aren't I? I'm sorry."

She wound her arms around his neck. "It's all right," she said, and it was.

* * *

The key weighed heavy in Albus's pocket for a full week before he found the strength to go in search of what it unlocked. He had his suspicions, of course. 'Remember the rules.' Jack was nothing if not consistent.

Albus first learned about the rules during the war, on their first little side trip into Albania and back. They'd been pinned down by stray gunfire in an abandoned fox hole somewhere outside Bucharest, Albus bleeding from a shrapnel wound and Jack armed only with a broken wand and a rusty automatic that kept jamming.

That was when Jack had shared his 'Rules to Live (Or at least live a bit longer) By.'

"How many rules are there exactly?" Albus had asked.

"Depends on how long we live. Right now? Eighteen and counting, and this is a Rule 18 situation if I've _ever_ seen one."

The key, of course, was likely to be Rule #13 in action_: Always have a Plan B, or at least an insurance policy._

Albus found the door that the key unlocked in a shabby flat not far from the Ministry. The key fit a cupboard off the cramped kitchenette, sealed tight and the cobwebs around it undisturbed. The flat had been rented under Jack's name, the rent paid up front for a full three years.

Albus flung the cupboard door wide.

What a hell of an insurance policy. It was all there: every book and scroll, every guess, every hunch, every treacherous word.

"It doesn't really matter," Jack had said when they started out, "if it's true. It only matters whether enough people think it's true."

Albus had believed, so had Metis and Tom. It had been irresistible to them, to Albus as a scholar and to Tom and Metis personally. Jack, though, had shrugged off the details, all the little clues, the historical implications. The consequences – the potential consequences – had been what mattered to Jack.

Albus should have listened to him.

* * *

"Are you ever going to tell me where we're going?"

"Just trust me."

"The last time I trusted you with a destination, I wound up on a camel."

"Ah, Marrakech. What a lovely little day trip." Hayden smiled as though savoring the memory. "Now stop asking, you'll ruin the surprise."

"I don't _like _surprises."

"Nonsense, everyone likes surprises."

"I hope you're not going to make me climb up that dreadful rock again…"

"I can promise you that – today, at least – we aren't going rock climbing."

True to his word, there were no rocks to climb. On the other hand, though, there were the stairs.

"A lighthouse?"

"Not just any lighthouse! _My_ lighthouse." He took her hand lightly in his and started up the narrow staircase. "I inherited it along with the rest of the property."

"Hayden," June said, trying to keep pace with him, "we're wizards. We don't _need_ lighthouses."

"Nor do we need automobiles or stoves or those delicious silk stockings you wear, but wouldn't life be a bit more dull without them?"

"I suppose," she said, not feeling entirely convinced (though he did have a point about the stockings).

"Here we are," he said, and opened a small round door out onto the gallery walkway outside the tower.

A sudden wind swept up, whipping June's skirt around her legs. The cliff face fell away from the side of the tower at a dizzying height, whitecaps crashing onto the broken rocks beneath them.

"Oh, my," June said, and took an involuntary step back, feeling a sudden wave of vertigo.

"Are you all right?" Hayden took her hand again. "It is a bit thrilling the first you see it, I suppose." He put an arm around her waist. "Don't worry, darling. We won't get too close to the edge."

"It is rather lovely - just a bit shocking. It sort jumps right out at one, doesn't it?" She took a deep breath, closed her eyes then opened them. "Well, that's better." She let go of his hand, which she realized she'd been holding far too tightly. "So what's the story of your lighthouse? I suppose there was some tragic shipwreck, and on dark and stormy nights one can still see the captain's wife pacing the gallery…" There was an extended pause. "Hayden?"

He still didn't reply, and she glanced sidelong at him. He was gazing intently at her.

"Marry me?"

She tossed her hair out of her eyes and turned back to the view. "I thought you said you were going to stop asking that."

"I did stop," he paused, "until I thought there was a chance it might actually work."

"And now you do?"

He reached over and took her hand, looking away. "And now I do."

She took a long breath and held it for a moment, before saying, "If I say yes, nothing will ever be the same again…"

He still wouldn't quite look at her, but he said, "I'm willing to risk it."

"Well, then so I am."

He turned to face her, his brow still furrowed.

"That's not quite it yet, is it?" she said, watching his expression. "Your 'proper' yes?"

"Not quite."

"I do want to marry you," she said, and it was true. More true than maybe she'd realized before she said the words aloud. "Not because I'm running away or because it's convenient, but because you're the person who understands me best in the whole world. Because you're willing to take me as I am, and I do the same for you without question. So, yes. I do want to marry you because… I simply can't think of anyone I'd rather marry. I do-"

He cut her off, dropping her hand and kissing her. It wasn't quite as dizzying and unexpected as that first kiss had been, but she still found herself a little breathless.

"That's my girl," he said, smiling at her when they broke apart. "I promise I'll do my best not to make you regret it."

"I'll hold you to that."

"I know you will." He glanced sidelong at her, smiling. "I think I should get a _bit_ of credit though. I mean, when I think of how I've pined away for you, afraid my love was doomed to go unrequited. Respecting your wishes, keeping silent. Oh, the self-denial! The resolve!"

"Your resolve lasted all of a month, Hayden," she pointed out.

He smiled at her, not looking contrite in the least. "Was it a whole month? I'm actually surprised I made it that long." He clasped her hand against his chest. "Where should we go to do this properly? Anywhere you want to go, my darling, anywhere in the world. Madrid, Paris, Milan… Milan, I think will do nicely. I've always rather liked the sound of that for the end of a story, 'And then they eloped to Milan…'"

"Isn't it usually, 'And then they lived happily ever after?'" she asked, amused.

"As though anyone actually believes that," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I much prefer my version." She laughed, and he grabbed her other hand in his. "Just imagine the gossip, my darling. 'Always such a smart, sensible girl before she eloped to Milan with that scoundrel…' It has such a nice ring."

"All right, all right," she said. "Milan it is."

* * *

"My dear boy," Vivienne Fairborne said, one elegant hand to her head and the other already reaching for the decanter, "your protestations to the contrary, I truly do believe you will be the death of me."

"Now see here, Mater-" Hayden began.

"I am not finished." She poured herself a healthy brandy and then another for June, blatantly ignoring the third empty glass on the tray. "I always imagined the marriage of my only child would be an event that I would, at the very least, be invited to. "

Hayden reached out and poured his own drink.

"Not only that, but I envisioned an elegant church wedding, in the springtime, perhaps with your beautiful bride wearing my grandmother's Italian lace veil." She clasped June's hand. "I wore it at my own wedding to Hayden's father. It's quite lovely and would have suited you beautifully."

"Mother-" Hayden tried again to interject.

"But, instead of that lovely springtime church wedding, followed of course by a beautiful garden reception, what did I get? A postcard, from Milan. 'Dear Mother, the most extraordinary thing has happened. I'm a married man. I'm sure you are as shocked as I am. Am I right in supposing we have something in the family vault that would make a suitable wedding ring? Your Loving Son.'" She splashed another finger of brandy into her glass. "Absolutely unacceptable."

Hayden flinched.

"All of that said, of course," she smiled suddenly, taking June by the hand again, "welcome to the family, my dear. It's about time."

"Thank you, I think."

"The ring is rather decent, though," Hayden said, reaching out to touch the impressively large emerald on her ring finger. "Don't you think, my love?"

"It's a sweet little ring, I suppose." She rewarded him with a devastating smile.

"That's my girl."

"Well, at least you're well-suited," Vivienne said, flinging herself down rather dramatically onto a very nice settee and pressing her glass against her pale forehead as though she felt faint. "That makes it _slightly_ easier to bear."

"Mater, dear, what can I do to make it up to you?"

June had the sense Hayden had walked right into Vivienne's trap, and she had a suspicion it wasn't for the first time.

"Oh I don't know." Out came a lovely monogrammed hanky. Vivienne fanned herself with it distractedly.

"Mother, tell me. I'll do _anything_."

"A party," she said, suddenly composed again.

"A what?"

"A proper wedding reception, with all the family, friends - everyone who _should_ have been there to witness the first wedding."

"Well, I don't know-" Hayden began, but broke off as Vivienne's expression began to change.

"It can't hurt," June said, jumping in to save the day. "If your mother wants to have a celebration for us, then why not? You are her only son, after all."

"Precisely!" Vivienne said, suddenly completely revived. "Oh, I'm so glad we're all agreed. Come here, my dear." She patted the seat beside her and June complied obediently. "You'll have to have something made, of course…"

"Of course. I'll see my dressmaker tomorrow."

"Nonsense. You can't wear anything made in London. We'll spend a week in Paris and purchase you a stunning gown, _and_ a proper trousseau."

"Oh, that isn't necessary-" she began, but broke off when she caught Hayden's eye. His expression seemed to be saying, 'Now look what a fine mess you've gotten us into.'

* * *

Vivienne was as good as her word. Two days later they were in Paris and June was pinned into swaths of ivory silk satin.

"Oh my. It's going to be lovely." Vivienne clapped her hands together happily, surveying June's reflection in the mirror with approval.

Indeed it was.

"It is lovely, Vivienne. Thank you so much."

She waved the thanks away. "It's as much for me as it is for you to be honest, my dear."

"Well, I'm glad to have made you happy then," June said, with a hint of a smile.

"Oh, I am going to enjoy having you for a daughter-in-law, aren't I? You're quite sharp, and not afraid to speak your mind. I'm so glad Hayden didn't marry some silly little sheep for her money." She turned to the dressmaker. "The gold thread for the embroidery, please. I'm happy to pay extra, if necessary."

The dressmaker's assistant helped June out of the half-finished creation, and into her clothes.

"Would you like a café au lait, my dear?" Vivienne asked as they walked out into the misty Paris morning. "I suddenly have a panting thirst."

"Coffee sounds wonderful."

"Lovely. I know just the place." After a moment, she said, "I'm glad to see Hayden settled at last, you know. I've never been one of those women desperate to see her offspring married off, but…"

"I'm sure you just wanted him to be happy-"

"Yes, I suppose so." She took June's hand in hers and squeezed it as they walked. "Has Hayden told you much about his father?"

"A bit."

"But not too much, I imagine. He never really forgave his father for leaving us."

"But you understood."

"Only too well. I get the feeling you understand it yourself, you know."

"I understand what's it like to be young, to see what's happening in the world and feel you simply have to _do_ something."

"Yes," Vivienne said, looking worlds away. "That's exactly what it felt like." A pause. "Laurence was so handsome, and quite charming." She smiled at the memory. "When I first met him, he was not what one would have called an ideal prospect for marriage. He was passionate, impetuous – a bit rash, honestly, but he felt things so deeply."

"Well, that certainly sounds familiar-"

"Not that Hayden would be happy to hear the comparison, of course, but he really is the image of his father in some ways. I suppose that's why I worried that he would never find some who suited him. Ah, here we are-" She paused at the entrance to a little café.

"Bon jour!" she said to the owner. "Emile, mon ami…"

The two chatted rapidly in French, and after a minute or two June gave up trying to follow the thread – her French was lousy anyway.

"This way, if you please, Madame Fairborne," Emile said, and it was a long moment before June realized he was speaking to her.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. It's all still a bit new, you see."

"Best wishes then, of course, Madame."

"Thank you."

"It does take some getting used to, you know," Vivienne said. "As far as I was concerned, Mrs. Fairborne was Laurence's dragon of a mother. Trust me, my dear, I'm little pink pussycat compared to Hayden's grandmother. She was quite the harridan, to tell you the truth."

"Somehow I suspect you were more than equal to the task…"

Vivienne smiled. "Nevertheless, becoming a wife is a bit like a caterpillar coming out of a cocoon. You're not changed in fundamentals, but your world will never quite be the same again. Marriage, my dear, is about understanding the other person and somehow managing the trick of loving them without losing yourself."

"That sounds so easy, doesn't it?"

"And there, my dear, lays the danger."

* * *

She left him.

She was, frankly, surprised at her own courage.

They were in the kingdom of Siam, a place Metis had wanted to visit ever since she was a very small girl and had a read a collection of adventure stories set in the king's grand palace in Bangkok. The reality of the place was even better. Maybe it was that memory, of herself in a time before Tom, before whatever it was she'd become with him, that gave her the strength to do it.

She walked out one day into the teeming marketplaces of the capital city and simply never went back.

She spent some time in the island provinces off the kingdom's coast. It was warm and lovely, with long stretches of pale sand beaches and warm, fresh breezes blowing in off the Indian Ocean. She walked the crowded streets, sampling noodles and sweets. She was uncharacteristically hungry, and everything tasted new and wonderful.

She avoided magic all together. She'd had her fill of spells and books and hidden charms. She only used what was necessary to keep her safe, to keep her alone.

She felt better, a little stronger, a little happier. But she'd thought that once away from Tom she would be completely whole again, that the fatigue, the dreams, the dizziness would ease. Even alone she couldn't quite shake the feeling of always falling down, down away from the world.

She stayed in Siam for a month, breathing deep in the salt air, before moving on. When she went, she had a far clearer view of what to do next.

* * *

The wedding party was splashed across the society pages, the gossip unavoidable.

"He is rather rich, I suppose," one of the younger teachers was saying to another over breakfast, while they both pretended not to look at Albus, "though he has the most dreadful reputation."

Hayden Fairborne smirked out at them from the pages of the _Daily Prophet_. The page was mercifully folded back so that June was hidden from view.

"I can't blame her really. Can you imagine being a professor's wife? Shut up here in the castle, or, worse, in some dreary shack in Hogsmeade. I'd run off to Milan with the nearest Casanova myself…"

"You might do anyway."

"Too true!"

Just barely resisting the urge to confiscate every copy of the paper in sight, Albus drained his coffee cup and stood up to leave. He got nearly halfway across the hall before he realized that he had a shadow.

"Oh, Albus…"

"Not now, Brionne."

"I am sorry, though," she said, looking genuinely so. "If you need tea and sympathy, you know where to find it. Or if you just need some crockery to smash, I've got quite a collection of that, too."

She really was a very good friend to him, and he often took her somewhat for granted.

"Thank you," he said. "I shouldn't have been surprised by the news. I just didn't think…" He shook his head.

"Get out of here." Off his expression, she said, "I mean it. Why stay around here through the weekend? There's nothing but empty hours to fill here. Go do something with yourself. It will help."

Not knowing quite what else to do, he went home.

His mother was out for the evening by the time he arrived, but he found his brother there. Aberforth was sitting in their father's study, a fire roaring in the hearth despite the season. He was wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, frowning at the newspaper, and for a very disconcerting moment Albus felt the he was a young boy again intruding on his father's privacy. Funny how, until this very moment, he hadn't really seen the resemblance.

"Hello, Aberforth," he said, hesitating in the doorway.

"I wondered if we'd be seeing you soon." Aberforth folded the paper and took off the spectacles, banishing the ghost of their father to the past where it belonged.

"So, she's finally gone and done it, then, has she?" Aberforth said, getting up and pouring two very hearty scotches from a bottle on the sideboard. "Poor old Albus. Come here and have a drink."

"How did you know that's why I was here?"

"Oh don't be daft. Where else would you go in times of trouble?" He waved the scotch in Albus's general direction.

Albus accepted the glass, but said, "It's not entirely her fault, you know."

"Nonsense." Aberforth tossed his scotch back in one gulp. "Of course, it is. You're heart-broken, old man. Get drunk, break the glassware, call her horrible names you'll rue tomorrow. It's your only chance to do it - and if you don't, you'll regret it." He picked up the bottle and refilled both glasses. "Well, for your sake, I hope she feels damned rotten."

"I somewhat doubt that. I assume you've seen the society pages. She looks like she feels just fine."

"Hayden Fairborne is a good enough sort, but hardly the marrying kind." He patted Albus manfully on the shoulder. "I give it a year – eighteen months tops."

* * *

He found her in India, at the Kali temple in Dakshineshvara. She didn't seem surprised to see him there. She glanced over her shoulder and smiled slightly, a little sadly, as if he'd simply been there all along.

"I've been looking for you," Tom said.

"I thought you might," Metis said, finally turning to face him. She looked different, tired. Still beautiful, but altered somehow.

"I wasn't sure whether you wanted to be found." He paused. "You went so far away."

She simply shrugged. "I've been searching, too."

"For me?"

"No," she said. "For me."

"What did you find?"

"Just you. Just another part of you."

They stayed there awhile, and when he left she went with him. Things went back to the way they'd always been. It was familiar, and he liked that.

India, though, was both everything he'd imagined and not at all what he expected. He learned many things there. He learned to control his consciousness, he learned not to feel pain, he learned to begin to see the patterns of another's thoughts. It fascinated him.

He also showed Metis all the things he learned in the few months they'd been apart.

She humored him, but without much enthusiasm. She was dimmed somehow, dulled, slower than he remembered. He watched her closely, trying to understand what had changed. She even moved more slowly, taking careful steps, needing his hand to help her up stairs and across streets.

"You're different," he said finally, tired of waiting for her to explain on her own.

"I suppose I am." She sighed slightly. "I'm going to have a baby."

"Are you?" His gazed flicked over her with something like interest. He found he didn't mind this news as much as he once might have. A child would bind her to him, keep her with him awhile longer. He knew, he'd accepted, that he was going to lose her someday – one way or another. But he wasn't prepared to let her go yet. He wanted to hold on, to be what they'd been for awhile longer.

He wasn't ready, yet, to be alone.

"When did this happen?"

"In Jakarta, I suppose. I didn't realize it until quite a bit later though. I suppose maybe I didn't want to know."

It made sense, suddenly, why Metis had gone to seek out Kali. He'd wondered. It hadn't seemed like her at all. But now that he knew about the child, well… Kali was the mother of the world, a power that could both give life and take it away.

She'd been trying, he reflected, to make a decision.


	4. Session 4: Blue Again

**Session 4: Blue Again**

_I'm blue again, blue again_

_And you know darn well it's you again_

_You said last night we were through again_

_And now I'm blue again_

Hayden was not, and had never been, much of an early riser. So it was something of a surprise for June to wake and find, after five years of marriage, that her husband had suddenly decided to get up with the sun.

It was barely dawn, the room still grey with shadows, the barest pink glow peeking through the window coverings. The door eased open and Hayden tiptoed inside, obviously trying to keep quiet, despite the fact that he was burdened with an enormous breakfast tray. There was an ominous rattle, and Hayden juggled the tray to keep it from crashing to the floor.

June closed her eyes and tried to look asleep.

"Hello there, my darling." A pause. "I know you're awake."

She smiled and opened her eyes. "Well, I guess I can't fool you, can I?"

"Never." He grinned at her, hefting a silver coffee service. "Coffee?"

"Did you make this?"

"No need to look so worried. Michael made it, coffee and all." He smiled again. "Happy anniversary, my love – and to think, they said it wouldn't last."

She raised herself up on one elbow and kissed him. "Frankly, I'm not sure _I_ thought it would last."

"But you are happy, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. Very happy."

"Good. So am I." He put his feet up on the bed and stretched out across the pillows. "After five years, it's what? The 'wood' anniversary?"

"You're not going to get me a cord of firewood or anything are you?"

"Nonsense. How would you feel about a treasure chest? Or a banquet table? Or a sailing ship?"

"All of the above?"

"Your wish is my command," he said, and kissed her. "Never fear. I have something quite special planned." He produced a small box with a flourish. "But first, these…"

"Hayden, honestly-"

"Darling, don't think I don't know about the barrel of delightful Grenache you have fermenting at Domaine Amie just for me…"

"How did you- Oh, never mind. You never cease to surprise me, which is entirely your aim, I know." She smiled at him. "It seemed apropos. It's where you proposed – the first time."

"A perfectly lovely gesture, and I do love a nice glass of Grenache." He grinned at her. "Now open your gift."

She did and inside was a predictably lovely pair of diamond earrings. "Hayden, thank you. You didn't have to you, though, you know."

He waved a careless hand. "I can quite honestly say I've never enjoyed spending my money quite so much as I do when it's for you."

"I love you, you know. Against all odds."

"I know. Given the odds, I'm a spectacularly lucky fellow."

* * *

"Albus? There's someone here to see you." Veronica Bellaire, the new Arithmancy teacher, was standing in his open doorway, smiling at him. She was crisply pulled together in what must have been a fashionable ensemble, her hair done up like an American film star. Brionne, he realized distractedly, had been right. She was far too pretty; she'd be married in a year and then they'd have to hire someone to replace her.

"I'm sorry?" he said, closing his book and taking off his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

She smiled at him again. "There's someone here to see you. Shall I send her up?"

"It's a bit late, isn't it?" He snapped his watch open. "Nevertheless. Show her in. Thank you, Veronica."

A few moments later a shadow crossed the threshold, shuddering a bit in the flickering lamplight.

"Hello, Professor," Metis McGonagall said, and he would have recognized her voice anywhere. The last time he'd heard it she'd been saying his name, telling him to go, to run away. "Though I suppose it's Headmaster now, isn't it?"

He blinked, unsure whether to go for his wand or not. "It is," he said cautiously, and settled for putting the bulk of his desk in between them. "Are you- Is there something I can do for you?"

"You have a post open. I'm here to apply, of course."

That was, quite possibly, the last thing he'd expected to hear her say. There was a long, silent moment where neither spoke.

"You really expect that I would let you teach here? Given everything I know about you?"

She looked supremely unruffled by his reaction. "What else would you have me do? Go work in a shop?" She laughed sharply. "I hardly think so."

"Well, feel free to leave your CV, of course…"

She frowned, scrutinizing him with the air of a woman unaccustomed to being refused. That was a change. When he'd seen her last, she'd been just a girl and a quiet, passive one, at that.

"I was led to believe that you'd had some difficulty filling this particular position, and there's not much time left to find someone suitable…"

"_Suitable_ being the operative word…"

"You assume a lot. It's been, what? Six years or more since we last met?"

"And the last time we met you were rather less than truthful with me. Do you have any idea what the consequences of your actions were?"

She shrugged, apparently unburdened by the damage she and Tom had caused. "Does any of that change what I can do? What I can see? There are a lot of fakes and charlatans out there who will _tell_ you they can see what's to come in tea leaves or the stars or the cards. It's all a lot of theater." Her eyes flashed with more passion than he remembered her possessing. "They're fakes and liars, at worst; misguided children, at best."

"You're talented, you always were," he admitted, shaking his head, "but you've strayed onto paths we don't approve of here."

Her mouth quirked oddly to one side, almost a smile but not quite. "Tom taught me a lot, it's true, but I guess that's all the more reason for you to have me where you can keep an eye on me." She leaned forward. "Understand this. I made a choice; I came to you willingly. I could have gone on as things were. I could have followed Tom and never looked back, but I didn't. I'm here, with you, and I've chosen."

"Why?"

"I have a daughter. Did you know that?"

"No, I didn't." But it should have surprised him more. It made a certain amount of sense.

"She's my reason. She changed everything. I love Tom. I always did, I always will- but I love my child more. I've left all of that behind me for her."

Albus remained unconvinced, but there was definitely _some_ truth in what she was saying. "I think you're still a bit dangerous."

She smiled at him, a little ruefully. "So are you."

There was a compelling argument to be made for keeping her there. She, potentially at least, had answers to his lingering questions about Albania, about Tom himself. She could also be planning something; lying to gain his trust, only to betray him later. Or maybe it was some combination of those – something out of their control, more complex than either of them realized.

"Is it true, do you suppose, that Tom will kill us? That he has to?" he asked, thinking back to Albania and the things Grindelwald had said to them all. "Do you think that he could kill you?"

"I don't know," Metis said calmly. "I know he doesn't want to… but he might."

"Doesn't that frighten you?"

"I'm not sure I know how to be properly afraid anymore. I suppose I won't know until it happens."

"Will it be soon?" Curiously enough, Albus found he wasn't particularly frightened either.

"No, he isn't strong enough yet." She smiled. "And he's afraid of you."

"Of me? Really? I can't imagine why."

"I think you could, if you only thought about it. You're more powerful than he is, for now at least, but that's not the reason. Take a look at yourself, at your students. You're everybody's father, and become even more so as time passes. You'll be the world's father by the time he's ready." She paused, looking down at her hands. "There's nothing Tom hates and fears more than a father."

"And so he could never be one?"

She paused again, weighing her words carefully. "I didn't say that exactly – and yet here I am."

"Here you are. And here, I suppose, you ought to stay."

* * *

They made an unlikely truce, the two of them.

Metis, whatever she else was, was an exceptional teacher – and she understood Albus, his methods and his peculiarities, perhaps even a bit too well at times.

There was talk, of course. Albus quietly spread the rumor that Metis had been widowed while living abroad, but it didn't stick. Half the school thought little Minerva was his daughter and that once he'd been made headmaster he'd brought them there to hide them away in the castle.

It caused something of a sensation, but not nearly so much as what happened next.

One evening early in the term, the Board of Governors descended on the school. A ripple of gossip followed their path through the hallways almost threatening to overtake their progress – Albus very nearly learned what had happened before they even reached his office.

"Albus," Brionne rushed into his office and shut the door behind her, sounding uncharacteristically ruffled. "I need to tell you before-"

There was a knock at the door.

"Oh, hell. I'm too late." She glanced from side to side, as though looking for somewhere to hide.

"Well," Albus chuckled, "this is all rather thrilling. I have to admit, I'm fairly curious to see who's at the door."

"Be careful," she said, shaking her head, "what you wish for."

He flung the door wide and blinked once, realizing as he did so that Brionne had been right.

"Hello, gentlemen," he said, moving aside and gesturing the whole of the Hogwarts Board of Governors into his office, "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Hello, Albus," said James Franklin, head of the board and an old friend of Albus's mother. He took off his hat, twisting it somewhat nervously in his hands.

"Can I offer anyone some refreshment? Brionne, perhaps you could call for-"

"That won't be necessary," a fellow called Burton who'd been at school with Albus said shortly, "This shouldn't take long."

"Well, allow me to offer you a seat, at the very least," Albus said, and the board complied.

Franklin began again, "The board has decided, you see, to finally fill old Parkinson's empty chair."

That hardly seemed to warrant a visit from nearly the entire sitting board.

"I'm very glad to hear it, though I must admit I'm a little curious why this news wasn't simply shared via post-"

"Hayden Fairborne," Burton cut in. "We've decided on Fairborne."

Behind him, Brionne let out a breath Albus hadn't quite realized she'd been holding.

"He's been something of an angel for the school of late," Franklin jumped back in quickly, "as I'm sure you're well aware. Very, very generous."

That he had – though Albus privately suspected it had been done largely to annoy him.

Burton, who had never liked Albus much and had gone so far as to oppose his appointment as headmaster, regarded him coolly.

"I trust this won't be a problem, will it, Headmaster?"

_Oh, certainly not._ At least, not until he punched Fairborne in the face halfway through the first meeting.

He managed a fairly convincing denial nonetheless, while Brionne politely and efficiently shuttled them all out the door.

"Well, I'd hoped to give you some warning," she said once they were all gone. "I didn't want you blindsided, given your history with the man in question, which of course is exactly what happened."

"I'm not sure it would have helped." He yanked open a desk drawer. His predecessor had, he knew, been fond of both whiskey and hidden cubby-holes. He felt underneath the stack of parchment scrolls in the drawer until something caught and the false bottom gave way. "Ah-ha, I knew it." He pulled a fairly dusty bottle from the hidden drawer.

Brionne simply sighed and produced a pair of glasses from a Chinese cabinet on the far side of the room. She set them on the desk and Albus pulled the stopper from the bottle with a squeak. He poured two fingers of the whiskey for each of them and sat heavily back behind the desk.

"Well, then."

"You can say that again." She paused while he took a drink. "You aren't going to challenge him to a duel or anything, are you?"

Albus raised an eyebrow. The idea was tempting.

"Albus!"

"I know, I know. I _would_ win though-"

"_No._"

He shrugged and took another drink.

"Don't be foolish. That's exactly the sort of reaction he wants, though just _why_ he wants to torment you is quite beyond me." She took a tiny sip of her own whiskey, made a face and set it down again. "And so is how he bribed the governors into accepting him in the first place…"

"Rich men generally have a talent for getting what they want."

"He is rather obscenely rich, isn't he? Oh, Albus." She lit a cigarette and inhaled sharply.

"It will be all right," he said. "Fairborne's apparently determined to make things damned difficult for me, but I'll manage – and then we'll see, I suppose, who the better man is."

* * *

"Well, my darling. I've got it."

Hayden sat down across the breakfast table from her, holding a long letter and looking like the proverbial cat with the canary.

"What have you got?" She poured his coffee, added a splash of cream, and passed him the cup. "I'm honestly hard-pressed to think of _anything_ you don't have already."

"At long last, they've given me my seat on the governing board!"

"The governing board of what?"

"The old alma mater, of course!"

"Oh, you didn't…"

"I did!"

"But _why_? The governing board is nothing but a bunch of old stuffed shirts sitting in endless meetings, handing out demerits and bickering about whether the students ought to be allowed to wear dungarees out on their Hogsmeade weekends… In short, it's the sort of thing that would absolutely bore you to death."

He shrugged. "I don't know. I just had the idea that I wanted to join, and it never quite went away. Usually when that happens to me, the only thing for it is to do or buy whatever the thing is."

"So you spent months lobbying and bullying your way onto the board on nothing more than a whim?" She sighed heavily. "I give it a month. Less if they meet more than _once_ a month."

"Well, even if that is the case, we'll get a decent party out of the whole affair." At her questioning look, he said, "They're to throw a luncheon in my honor next Thursday." There was a very extended silence. "I'm told it's going to be quite a _nice_ luncheon. They're going to name the library after me."

June nearly choked on her coffee. "The _library_? Oh, Hayden… Did you ever even set foot inside the library at school?"

"All right, perhaps not the library then. Something else? The pitch?"

"More like the rosebushes outside the Great Hall."

He gave her a positively wicked look. "How nice that would look on a brass plaque: The Hayden L. Fairborne Rose Garden. I'd have the whole thing replanted with red bourbons, a proper June rose."

"Hayden," she said, unable to keep the softness from her voice.

He stood up and leaned over her chair. "Now, give your husband a kiss and go buy something smashing to wear up to the school. I want every fellow in the place to be positively green with envy."

"Or just one fellow in particular?"

"Would I do something like that?"

"In _spades_."

* * *

The best thing that could be said about the first meeting between Albus and the new Board of Governors was that he and Fairborne didn't actually come to blows – but it was a close thing.

It was a spectacular fall afternoon and the students had been largely banished to Hogsmeade for a visit in an attempt to keep them out from underfoot. The board, the faculty and various powerful, generous or otherwise noteworthy alumni gathered in the Great Hall for a very nice luncheon.

Albus was late, probably something his subconscious had done on purpose. He couldn't particularly blame it; he'd been dreading this all week. The doors of the Great Hall flung wide to allow him in, and he realized he was making a slightly more dramatic entrance than intended. In fact, the conversation hushed as he entered, the doors closing behind him with a slightly ominous thud.

The Board of Governors was all in attendance, including a very dapper Hayden Fairborne and, of course, June. None of the faculty, he noted with a slightly guilty twinge of pleasure, would give them more than a barely polite acknowledgement. Metis outright stared at June over her teacup, her dislike quite evident.

"June Fairborne?" an elegantly-dressed woman wearing far too much jewelry for the afternoon snagged June by the arm as the conversation in the hall roared back to life. "I thought that was you – and, of course, you would be here, wouldn't you? Isn't this lovely? Hayden must be so pleased."

"Hmm. Lovely." June sounded positively bored. She turned slightly, though, as if she could feel Albus watching her. He quickened his step to pass them by.

Brionne gestured him over to where she sat with Veronica Bellaire. "Come here, Albus. Have a little something to ease the pain." She surreptitiously tipped the contents of a flask into Veronica's teacup, then her own.

"It does help," Veronica laughed. "Though we promise to be good and not overindulge and embarrass you."

"I have every faith in you." Albus couldn't help but smile himself. "I'll pass this time, though."

"Need all your wits about you in case there's a duel?" Brionne said it lightly, but he knew her well enough to see she wasn't really kidding.

"_I_ won't start a duel, Brionne. I can't be answerable for anyone else's behavior, though."

Veronica looked from one to the other, one perfectly penciled eyebrow raised, but didn't press the question. No doubt she'd ask Brionne to explain the second Albus was out of earshot.

"Do you suppose," she said, deftly changing the subject, "that the governing board will finally allow female students to wear trousers? It was a hot topic of debate when I was student."

"Which was all of about ten minutes ago," Brionne said tartly, but she was smiling slightly behind her teacup.

Albus left the two sitting there and quickly made his rounds of the room, thanking the governors and the alumni in particular for joining them. He stopped short of welcoming Hayden and June, though. Brionne must have seen his hesitation because she suddenly materialized at his elbow, her spiked tea left behind and apparently forgotten.

"You will have to say something to them, you know. It would be a hell of a snub if you didn't."

"I know. I just may have to work my way up to it."

"Albus," Brionne looked caught somewhere between sympathy and frustration, "it's been five years. Surely after all this time…"

"Eighteen."

"What?"

"It's been eighteen years, all told. So long as you're counting, you might as well know the real number."

"Even still." Her expression shifted, the frustration gone, replaced with something that looked worryingly like pity. "It's been quite long enough that you should be able to wish them welcome and _then_ run like hell."

Albus looked over her shoulder to where June stood, talking to a pair of quite elderly alumni. Fairborne, one hand resting possessively on the small of her back, was gazing down at her with raw, unguarded affection.

With an effort, Albus tore his gaze away and set down his cup. "I think I'll take a bit of a walk."

"Albus…" Brionne gave him a warning look.

"I just need some fresh air," he said. She looked unconvinced. "It's _fine_."

He lapped the grounds twice before finally coming to rest outside the Great Hall. He was trying to summon up the will to go back in when he heard a soft murmur of voices from the rose garden. He turned to walk back the way he'd come, but then he distinctly heard June's voice from inside the garden.

"Oh, Hayden," she said, and Albus knew that tone well. "We don't belong here."

"Nonsense," was his only reply. "We'll just keep giving them money until they _have_ to be nice to us."

"I'm not sure even you have that much money."

Albus couldn't help eavesdropping. He stayed behind the rosebushes, but moved slightly to the right so he could see their faces through a gap in the branches. June was sitting on a low stone bench, looking equally worried and resigned. She was wearing a fashionable green dress, the same shade as the stone in her wedding ring. Fairborne had hold of her hand, straddling the bench, his well-cut and obviously expensive jacket tossed carelessly on the ground.

"Why do you even care, my darling? Or is it not _their_ opinions that bother you?"

"Hayden, you ought to know better…"

"It's not jealousy, darling. I just know that you wouldn't care two pins for what those old spinsters think if there wasn't something else to it."

June sighed. "Fine. You win. Yes, it bothers me, but we'll survive."

He leaned in close to her and smiled. "We always do."

She kissed him lightly on the lips. "Yes, we do."

He kissed her back, rather more ardently. When he finally released her, he grabbed his jacket up off the ground and said, "Come on then – back into the lions' den."

"Wait," she said, straightening his tie and smoothing his lapels, looking at him the way she'd never quite managed to look at Albus. "All right, I think you're ready for the lions again." She paused. "They are a lot of mean old cats, it's true, but I don't mind braving them for you. You know that, don't you?"

"You're just blinded by my not-inconsiderable charm."

"Come along." She grabbed his hand and tugged. "This was all your idea, after all."

They got up to leave, and Albus abandoned the rosebushes and hurried back inside to the corridor. A door slammed somewhere ahead of him, footsteps echoing around the hall.

"There are rose petals in your collar." Their voices were dangerously close, and June was laughing. "People will think we've been up to no-good in the rosebushes."

"Oh, I do hope so…"

They rounded the corner, June's hands in the pockets of her dress, Hayden with one arm wrapped familiarly around her waist. Albus looked around for a convenient alcove or side corridor to duck into, but it was too late.

"Hullo, there!" Hayden said, with a smile that didn't even begin to reach his eyes. "It's our host. I wondered when you'd get around to welcoming us."

Albus just raised an eyebrow. "Welcome?"

"Albus-" June began, and he hated the note of pleading in her voice. He let his gaze slide over her and back to Fairborne.

"You hardly need my welcome; you already appear to have made yourself quite at home without asking my leave."

"I suppose it is your territory," Hayden replied, the barest note of challenge in his voice. "Or, at the very least, it was."

"It was, and if you had any sense you would have left well enough alone-"

"Albus, there you are!" Veronica came around the corner, looking, as always, like she'd just stepped off the cover of a magazine. "The Undersecretary for Muggle Relations has been asking for you for a half-hour at least…"

She collected him smoothly, taking his arm, and in that moment he was suddenly aware of just how much she reminded him of the girl June had been a decade ago – brash, lovely, a little haughty, and entirely unflappable. He glanced over his shoulder trying to glimpse June's expression, but she was in shadow, her face unreadable.

"If this is wildly inappropriate," Veronica said too softly for the others to hear, still holding his arm and steering him back toward the Great Hall, "please tell me now. I'd hate to get sacked before the term has even had a chance to really get started." She took a deep breath. "Brionne and the others looked so terribly worried, but no one quite had the nerve to do anything about it."

"Except you."

"Except me." She grinned at him, still the picture of confidence. "Call it the foolhardiness of youth."

"I call it very kind, Veronica. Thank you. I think you might have saved me from myself. So where is the Undersecretary?" he asked as they reentered the hall.

"Oh, that was a lie," Veronica replied smoothly. "I'm not even sure he's here, to be honest." She steered him through the crowd and deposited him at the front of the room. "Here we are. Why don't you take your proper place, and I'll fetch you a drink?"

"Thank you."

Brionne came up as well and something unreadable passed between the two women as Veronica left.

"Well," Albus said as she took her place at his right hand. "The two of you are managing me very nicely."

"Someone has to," she said. "So did you work up your nerve and speak to them?"

"After a manner."

"Albus, you _are _maddening. But, still, I wish I could fix this for you."

"So do I."

* * *

Albus would have laid even odds that Hayden Fairborne's tenure on the Board of the Governors would have lasted a fortnight at most. Fairborne, though, seemed determined to defy expectations in the most irritating manner possible. After months of putting up with near-constant needling in meetings, Albus had finally had enough and delegated all but the most critical interactions with the board to Brionne.

The board held its regular monthly meetings at the school, but, rather predictably, held most of its other events at various gentlemen's clubs and better restaurants in London. That particular night was a regular meeting and the board was gathered in discussion somewhere right beneath Albus's feet. Not that one could tell, of course. A fire roared in the hearth in Albus's rooms, the lamplight low and soft. The winter had been wet so far, rain drumming on the windows and little hope of any snow by Christmas. Albus himself was reclined in his favorite chair, little Minerva curled up sleepily in his lap, a picture book open but forgotten in her hands. Metis sat on the thick Turkish rug, close the fire, the whole of her concentration on whatever she was writing in a leather-bound book.

"I'm famished," she said after a bit, closing the book and stretching in the firelight. "Can I get you anything, Albus? I think there's still some shortbread in the buttery."

"That does sound rather nice…"

"I'll fetch us a plate, and something to drink."

Minerva stirred, blinking her eyes sleepily. "Mummy?"

"What do you say, dearest? Would you like a biscuit?"

Minerva nodded her head, simultaneously rubbing her eyes with both fists.

"You shouldn't give her sweets so close to bedtime…"

"Says the man who keeps a toffee hammer next to his bed," she said, shrugging into a sweater as she left the heat of the fire behind. She paused slightly at the door, looking down the corridor before exiting, as though she'd prefer that no one see her leaving the Headmaster's rooms so late in the evening.

Albus knew people still talked, and he could hardly blame them. Metis was young and startlingly beautiful, and their relationship was rather out of the ordinary. She was still a mystery, even to him. The child, on the other hand, brought him more joy than he could have imagined, during a time when it was in short supply. Metis indulged him, let him dote on her daughter, allowed him to use them to fill a void in his life. He wondered sometimes what she truly thought of him, of this strange arrangement between them. He didn't push too hard, though. He wasn't honestly sure he wanted to know – because he had to admit to himself that so long as Minerva was there he would do whatever it took to give them his protection, no matter what her mother's thoughts or feelings truly were. He looked down at her fondly. He'd never really imagined himself as fatherly until Metis had brought the little girl into his life.

Metis returned with a plate of shortbread, a bottle of milk and three glasses, kneeling down again on the rug in front of the fireplace and laying out their provisions. Albus moved to sit on the floor himself, Minerva still on his lap.

"Just one," he told her mildly, but he needn't have bothered. She took a single biscuit and curled back up into a drowsy little ball.

There was a soft knock at the door and Brionne entered, her gaze flicking over the apparently domestic scene with a slightly skeptical eye. "Headmaster? The governors are asking for you."

"Not going so well, is it?" he asked, picking Minerva up and handing her to Metis as he stood.

Brionne frowned darkly. "So far they've asked me to make and serve tea for them, and one old fellow proposed that I join him for some very impertinent recreational activity – but other than that they've largely ignored me."

"It is a bit of a boys' club."

"Albus, you truly have the gift for understatement."

He smiled sympathetically. "Have a biscuit."

"Sweets don't quite cure _everything_, you know."

"True, but it can hardly hurt." He handed her a piece of shortbread, and she smiled in spite of herself.

"All right then." She took the biscuit. "Shall I go back with you?"

"No need. Eat your biscuit, put your feet up. I'll call you if I need you."

"You don't have to tell me twice." Brionne laughed and sank into the chair he'd vacated.

"What are they deciding tonight, anyway?"

"They want the school to stage an historical pageant depicting the inspiring and instructive lives of the Founders."

"Ah, fiction then," Albus muttered. "Whatever for?"

"Not a clue. Ask James Franklin – it was his idea."

When Albus joined the board downstairs, it was quite clear that tempers were running short. They'd been discussing the issue for several hours and seemed no nearer to a resolution.

"Oh excellent," Fairborne said lazily as Albus entered the room. "The cavalry. Let the old boy decide this one so we can all go home to our beds and our lovely wives." He looked pointedly at the fellow across the table from him. "Well, at the very least, _my_ wife is lovely."

"Gentlemen," Albus said, hoping to avert a row. "How can I help you?"

"I think, Headmaster," said James Franklin, "that we may need an objective voice to break a tie."

"And Professor Ivey couldn't provide that for you?" Albus asked, and noted that none of the board would quite meet his eye – except Fairborne, of course.

"She gave it her best try," he said pointedly. "But we're apparently rather set in our ways…"

The man across the table from Fairborne – Albus couldn't immediately remember his name – glared at him darkly.

"Very well then," Albus said, hoping his irritation wasn't visible, and took the empty seat at the head of the table. "I take it opinions are evenly split on whether to undertake the project?"

"That's right. The argument _for_ the idea is that it would not only be a valuable educational opportunity for the students, but also gives us a vehicle to involve the alumni and engage in some additional fundraising. The argument against…" Franklin trailed off, looking pointedly at Fairborne and Burton.

"I just don't see the point," Fairborne shrugged eloquently and even though he _agreed_ with him, it set Albus's teeth on edge. "The students are quite busy enough as it is."

"Not to mention," Burton said, "that we've yet to address what the content of this thing would involve. How are we going to handle the Slytherin question, for example? We do that wrong and we can bid goodbye to at least a fourth of any potential funds we might have expected to raise…"

"And a tidy, whitewashed version of events hardly qualifies as an educational opportunity for the students, and might even be harmful to their understanding of wizard history," Albus mused aloud. "I do see the dilemma… Given all the different versions and, shall we say, interpretations of the Founders story, it doesn't quite seem appropriate. Whichever interpretation we produced would be seen as the school's endorsement of a particular set of beliefs."

"So you're opposed?"

Albus chose his words carefully, "Not opposed to the _idea_, but I don't think it's something we should undertake at this time."

"So you're opposed," Burton said, as though that settled the matter.

"Well, you and I are on the same side of this one, old boy," Fairborne said, looking mildly amused at the prospect.

"For wildly differing reasons, of course," Albus muttered, but no one seemed to hear him.

"The Headmaster is right," Fairborne said, addressing the group. "We ought to listen to him."

Albus blinked, then scanned the faces around the table. "Is this an attempt to use reverse psychology on me?"

In spite of himself, Burton chuckled. "No, but don't think I won't use that idea in the future." He folded his hands. "I think the matter is settled then. Sorry, Franklin."

And that was that.

The governors left one by one, some lingering longer than others. Despite his stated desire to get home to June, Fairborne was one of the last to remain. As Albus shuttled a quite elderly member of the board outside, he noted that Fairborne and Burton were still lingering in the castle, chatting amiably.

The main door opened, revealing the first clear sky they'd had in weeks. The moon was impossibly large, hanging high in the sky, casting cold white light over the wet grounds. Unable to resist the view Albus stepped outside himself, bidding farewell to his charge, who hobbled quickly toward the castle gates. Nearly free for the evening, Albus relaxed, breathing deeply in the suddenly crisp air.

"Where are you off to then, old boy?" said a voice off to his right. Fairborne had followed him outside. The bright moonlight cast him in shadow, making it hard to read his expression.

"I thought you were in a hurry to get home?" Albus said, purposely not answering the question. "You'd best get moving." He turned to walk off.

"Hold on just a minute." Fairborne started after him. "I've got a thing or two to say to you."

"And what, exactly, makes you think I'm interested in anything you have to say?" Albus glared at him. "You know, I keep waiting for you to tire of baiting me, to tire of this whole business – but I'll admit you have more staying power than I would have given your credit for."

"In more ways than one, I'd wager."

Albus felt his patience truly beginning to fray. "Am I surprised that she hasn't tossed you out on your ear? I suppose I am, though she's demonstrated that she doesn't have particularly good judgment."

"Because she walked out on you or because she eventually came back?"

"Or maybe because she jumped straight into your bed the first time the going got rough?"

"I did give you fair warning," Hayden pointed out mildly, refusing to take the bait. "You had to know that if you let her go I'd be there, waiting for my chance. I'd been wildly in love with her for years." He folded his arms. "You blame us, as though we're the ones who wrecked your chance at happiness. You did that all yourself. She would have done anything to make it up to you, and I would have gritted my teeth and born it if you had taken her back – but you didn't and it was probably the best favor you could have done her. You were rotten for her. Face it, old boy."

Albus refused to answer him and simply turned to go.

"It's not," Fairborne called after him, "that she didn't love you. She did, you know, terribly. It just wasn't enough to make the difference, _you_ weren't enough."

Albus stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly. Fairborne smiled insolently at him.

"Well, now I have your attention." His expression shifted to something unreadable. "Come on then. Have a go. Take your best shot."

"Have you completely lost your mind?"

Which was, of course, when Hayden hit him.

It was a sucker punch, a wicked shot straight to his face that clearly and cleanly broke his nose. Albus didn't stop to think; he simply reacted – by returning the favor. Hayden, though, looked rather perversely pleased as Albus socked him in the gut.

"You don't get to come here, Fairborne," Albus said, pushing him away, "and just decide to have this out on your terms."

"Oh really? It seems to me that's just what we are doing."

They circled each other warily, though neither went for their wand. Yet.

"Why are you doing this? You won, I lost," Albus said. "Isn't that enough? I lost her and it nearly killed me. I'd almost died once already, after all – saving our collective hides, I might add – but I suppose none of that mattered…"

"You lost her long before that, old boy. In fact, I'd go so far as to say you never _had_ her." He paused. "And, no, none of the rest of it mattered. You did what untold thousands have done before you. You did your bit. You don't get any special consideration for doing what you _should _have done, what we all would have done."

"You utter bastard," Albus said, and caught him across the jaw with a right-cross.

"You never loved her." Hayden spat blood, and shoved Albus away. "You never loved _her_, you loved some ridiculous picture of her that you'd been carrying around in your head since you were children. You never bothered to love the actual woman she's become, but you still thought you deserved to have her because you were just so bloody _good_."

Albus chose not to dignify that with a reply. He just rushed Hayden again and they went down in a tangle of swinging fists.

"She's happy with me, and that just eats you up, doesn't it?" Hayden said when they'd retreated to their respective corners again. "She loves me."

"Not enough. _Clearly_ not enough to bother to have a child with you."

Hayden went white to the lips and dropped his guard.

"You don't know the first thing about it-" he began, and fell back with an 'oof' when Albus jabbed him viciously in the ribs.

Hayden set his feet, though, recovering himself long enough to kick Albus's legs out from under him, and down he went. His head smacked the hard ground sharply, and he lay there for a long moment blinking up at the stars and waiting for whatever Hayden was going to do next. He could hear labored breathing above him and the sound of slightly wobbly footsteps in the mud.

Rather unexpectedly, Hayden slid down to sit beside Albus on the wet ground. He reached out a hand and pulled Albus to sitting position. "Well, I suppose that's that. It's been a long time in coming. Feel better?"

Albus blinked again. "Not even a little!"

"Well, _I_ feel quite improved. Your nose looks dreadful, though."

His nose _was_ starting to throb very uncomfortably, and there was blood all over the front of his robes – both his and Hayden's. He pushed himself to his feet with an effort, the world spinning slightly away from him as he did so.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To Infirmary."

"You'll never make it alone." Hayden stood as well and offered him a hand.

Albus swatted him away, not very effectively.

"Enough of that," Hayden said patiently, slinging Albus's arm across his shoulders. "We've had a good honest fight, and now it's done."

"You are possibly the most infuriating person in the world," Albus replied, giving up and accepting the help.

"So I'm told, particularly by my loving wife."

"She _does_ love you," he said, albeit a bit grudgingly.

"I'm very lovable," Hayden said, "flaws and all. She loved you, too, you know. I think a part of her always will love you." He sighed. "And I think I'm finally learning to live with that."

They lapsed into a silence that lasted the rest of their journey.

Poppy, the rather pretty matron's assistant, regarded them with a mixture of surprise and amusement when they limped into the Infirmary.

"Should I even ask who hit who first?"

"Oh, I hit him first," Hayden said lightly, easing Albus's weight down onto one of the empty beds. "It was very unsporting of me."

He sat down heavily on the bed opposite Albus. His left eye was beginning to swell rather badly and his lip was split and bleeding.

"I got you pretty good," Albus said.

"Same to you," Hayden replied, and Poppy abruptly yanked the privacy curtain closed between them.

"That's about enough of that," she said, pulling the other curtains and closing Albus in. "Luckily for you there aren't any students in here tonight, or you'd have a bit of explaining to do."

She left briefly and came back with a tray full of unpleasant- looking implements.

"Here, wipe that blood from your face." She handed him a damp cloth, and took a second look at his nose. "Oh dear. That's not going to heal right."

"It's far from the first time it's been broken, so no real loss there."

She worked in silence for a few minutes and he began to feel markedly better. She brought him a draft of something fizzy to drink, and waited for him to finish, before she said. "So, it's all true then – you and Hayden Fairborne and his wife. I rather thought it was just idle talk."

"It isn't _all_ true. Though the uglier bits probably are," he admitted.

"And Metis McGonagall?"

"Those parts are most definitely _not_ true."

"But there is a secret there," she mused, "just not the one we all thought." She smiled at him. "I normally hate night duty, but I'm awfully glad to have it tonight. It's been most instructive." She wrapped his possibly-broken right hand in something cool and his skin began to prickle. "You're just lucky the matron isn't on duty tonight, you know. She's the most terrible gossip."

"Unlike you, of course," he said dryly.

"I prefer to think of myself as curious." She smiled again. "The difference being that _I_ won't tell anyone your secrets. You have my word on that."

* * *

The message came at midnight and roused June – and the entire household – from a fairly sound sleep. It said simply that there had been "an incident" at the school and asked politely – if not warmly – if she could come collect her husband.

Where Hayden was concerned, "an incident" could mean anything, up to and including an international skirmish of some sort.

June dressed quickly, very deliberately not thinking about what type of trouble Hayden was likely to have found at Hogwarts – and who else was probably involved.

"Michael? Fetch my coat, please. I have to go up to the school and see to Mr. Fairborne."

"Yes, madam." He hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Of course, I would be more than happy to go in your stead…"

_Good old Michael._ She smiled at him. "I know you would, and don't think I don't appreciate it. But I've no idea what sort of trouble Hayden's got himself into, so I'd better go myself."

After what felt like an eternity, she found herself standing at the school's gates, worried sick about Hayden and desperate to get to him – and yet a bit reluctant to walk up to those imposing doors and knock. Even so, she took a breath, steeled herself and crossed the muddy grounds to the entrance.

Edmund Halley, who she'd known for years and always rather liked, greeted her at the door, somewhat less than cordially. Whatever else could be said about Albus, he inspired loyalty like no one else she'd ever known.

"It's nice to see you, Ed," she said, without much hope of a response in kind.

"Too bad it's because you've got yourself into such a bad spot," he replied, and she knew he was referring to more than just whatever trouble Hayden was in.

Without another word, Ed left her standing outside the headmaster's office like a student awaiting punishment. She tried to collect herself, to prepare for whatever Albus might have to say to her.

"Mrs. Fairborne is here," she heard Ed say. "I can take her up, if you'd like?"

"No, no. I'd better do it." That was Brionne Ivey, and if she was in charge of things then it meant Albus wasn't around for some reason. "The situation could be rather delicate."

_Good lord,_ June thought, abruptly chilled. Hayden was dead or permanently injured, and they were trying to figure out how to tell her. Or worse, he'd killed Albus in a duel and they were shipping him off to Azkaban.

They were still speaking inside the office and she strained to hear.

"Are you going to let me in on what's really going on here, Bri?"

"Sorry, I can't. Show her in, won't you?"

"Those two are nothing but trouble," he said, and Brionne sighed.

"I can handle it."

The door opened, and June tried to look as though she hadn't been eavesdropping.

"Come in, June," Brionne said, as Ed left. "I'm sorry to have woken you and made you come all this way, but it did seem like the best option, given the circumstances." She closed the door and went to sit behind Albus's desk. "As I mentioned in my message, there's been an incident."

"Should I be sitting down?" June asked, suddenly aware that her hands were shaking, eyeing the bottle of whiskey on the desk. "Or doing something to steady my nerves?"

"No." Brionne looked at her closely. "My goodness, you're white as a sheet. It's nothing as serious as all that. It's just," she paused, considering her words, "a bit awkward and potentially embarrassing. I'd prefer to keep it from the faculty and students if at all possible."

Potentially embarrassing sounded more like the Hayden she knew and loved, so June allowed herself to relax just bit. She took a seat and folded her hands in her lap.

"Your husband and the headmaster had something of a disagreement this evening."

"About school business?"

Brionne's mouth quirked slightly to one side. "Ostensibly."

"I see."

"I'll bet," she murmured. "So there's really no way around it: they had their best go at beating each other to a pulp."

"But no one's been killed, or permanently disfigured?" June asked, not feeling quite as relieved as she might have expected.

"Not this time."

"Is Hayden all right? Can I see him?"

"_Both_ of them are fine. Just a little banged up, and enjoying the accommodations in Infirmary at the moment. I can take you up there now, if you'd like." She hesitated a bit, though, as if there was something more she wanted to say, but didn't. "Shall we?"

They were halfway up one of the castle's winding staircases before Brionne spoke again.

"Look, it's probably not my place to say so, but this situation is-" She broke off, glancing sidelong at June.

"It's all right. You can be honest with me. It's no use pretending we don't all know what's really going on here."

Brionne watched her, considering for a moment, maybe trying to decide if June was telling the truth. She took a deep breath, decision made, and said, "All right then. This situation is monstrous. It reminds Albus every day of the mistakes he's made, of the things he's lost. It's entirely unfair to him. He's a good man, maybe even a great one."

"You really care about him, don't you?" June asked, feeling curiously unsettled by the fact.

"I love him, of course, but not _that_ way. And lucky thing for me that I don't – that torch he's got burning for you isn't going away time soon," Brionne said, and then immediately looked as though she regretted it. "What I mean to say," she amended," is that I've already got three brothers. What's one more?"

"He's very lucky," June said, suddenly blinking back inexplicable tears. "He's lucky to have you; he's lucky to have all of you. All of the teachers and staff here are so loyal to him."

Brionne's expression softened a bit. "It's easy for us to be loyal to him. Like I said, he's a good man – but that alone doesn't make other relationships any less complicated."

They stopped outside the door to the Infirmary. June clasped Brionne by the hand briefly. "Thank you."

She just shrugged and pushed open the door. "Hello, Poppy. How are our patients faring?"

A pretty girl, nineteen or twenty at the most, stepped out from behind one of the curtains, wiping her hands on a cloth. "About how you'd expect, given how foolishly they've both behaved." She turned to June. "I imagine Mr. Fairborne will be pleased to see you, at any rate. This way…"

June followed her, while Brionne turned and twitched aside the curtain to the bed Poppy had just come from.

"You all right in there, Albus?" she heard Brionne ask. His reply was indistinct, but he didn't sound particularly happy.

"Here we are," Poppy said, leading June to the next bed over.

Hayden lay propped up on pillows, looking quite a bit worse for wear. His expression flitted briefly between guilt and panic when he saw June. He recovered neatly, though, putting on his most winning smile.

"My love," he said, "Even woken from your bed at the witching hour, you're still the loveliest woman in the world."

"Oh my, good luck with this one," Poppy said, and beat a hasty retreat.

June folded her arms across her chest, standing just out of his reach. Her gaze flicked up and down quickly, cataloging his injuries: a black eye, split lip, possibly a cracked rib or two. Lovely.

"Well," she said, "I suppose this _shouldn't _be a surprise, and yet I didn't actually believe you'd ever resort to physical violence."

"Something had to be done, my darling," he said, softly, and she knew they were both very aware that there was nothing but a thin fabric curtain between his bed and Albus's. "At least now it's out there in the open, in all its ugly glory. You, me, the Professor, all our sins remembered. None of us are blameless in this mess. We were selfish and scared and cruel; we made terrible mistakes – _all_ of us."

"You've given this rather a lot of thought, haven't you?" Suddenly his bloody-minded insistence on joining the Board of Governors began to make a bit of sense. She moved closer and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I have." He looked uncharacteristically serious. "I know it's not very adult of me, but having the memory of him lingering in our lives was driving me slowly mad. I acted out. I needed to have it out, and I suspect he did, too. The dam's broken. I think things will be better now."

"Maybe," June said, not at all convinced. She took his hand in both of hers. "You frightened the life out of me, you know. I thought you'd killed him, or been killed yourself."

He smiled at her. "While I'd gladly die to make you happy, darling, I don't plan on doing it quite yet."

For the second time in the last few minutes, June felt tears threatening. "Well, good. If you went and died on me, I'd have to kill you."

"I'm not going anywhere without you," he said, leaning in and kissing the side of her forehead.

The tears spilled over and she wiped them away impatiently. "Hayden, you look terrible. What did he hit you with? A boulder? I can't imagine what you looked like before they got you in here."

He grimaced. "Actually, that supposed ministering angel hasn't quite got around to patching me up yet."

Of course not. Another one of Albus's loyal soldiers, no doubt.

"Serves you right," she said, not really meaning it.

He smiled at her and it looked like it hurt him to do it. "I'll admit, I did start it. I'll also admit that it felt rather satisfying to finally hit him after all these years. I'd wanted to do it for the better part of decade."

"And now?"

"He was rather a good sport about the whole thing." Hayden closed his eyes and lay back against the pile of pillows. "He's not such a bad old fellow, after all."

* * *

Much as Albus hated to credit Fairborne with being right about anything, relations between them did improve dramatically after their confrontation. Rather to Albus's dismay, in fact, he'd taken to stopping by the headmaster's office before meetings, usually with a bottle of "something decent" in tow.

"You really do have the most dreadful taste," Hayden said, kicking the door shut behind him and depositing a bottle of rather fine-looking gin on Albus's desk. "Something must be done about it."

"Is this part of your plan?" Albus asked, taking off his spectacles and massaging the bridge of his nose where the cartilage still hadn't quite healed from the impact of Hayden's fist. "To kill me with kindness?"

Hayden didn't reply immediately; he just raised an eyebrow enigmatically. After a long moment, though, he said, "I thought I'd made my intentions quite clear that night I broke your fist with my face. I intend to fix this mess we're in or die trying." He looked hard at Albus. "It would be a damn sight easier if you and my wife weren't both quite so stubborn."

Albus didn't have a response for that, so he just let Hayden continue.

"I've got to dash, but do tell me what you think of that gin." He turned to go. "Oh, and now that the weather's turned fine, the mater is having a grand old house party. You're more than welcome to join us, of course."

"It _is_ nice that we've mostly ceased hostilities, but let's not force the issue."

"At least come by for cocktails on Friday." He waved away any further protest, heading for the door. "It's settled. We'll see you Friday at five o'clock sharp. Cheers then, old boy."

"Oh, go to hell," Albus said, but without as much fire as he once would have. And when Friday came around, he actually did show up for drinks.

The Fairbornes' country house was not, as Albus might have expected, a grand old manor. Instead, it was relatively new, particularly by wizarding standards, and rather smart.

"Well," Hayden said, when Albus was shown in, "I didn't really think we'd see you today, despite my best efforts." He snagged two martinis from a passing tray. "Make yourself at home, have a drink, and I'll introduce you to my mother."

Albus had never met Vivienne Fairborne in person, though his own mother had spoken of her often. She'd been the belle of the social scene in her day. He knew that she'd been quite beautiful then, and that she'd married a handsome but rather unsuitable man who'd died young and tragically, and had left her to raise a son all alone.

In person, she was still quite striking and gracious. If she was surprised at Albus's presence, she didn't show it, saying only, "Ah, Professor Dumbledore. I _have_ heard quite a bit about you. I'm so glad you could join us."

The party was nice enough, though not really Albus's sort of thing. After about an hour of polite inquiries after mutual friends and light talk about the weather, he disentangled himself and made his escape into the empty music room for a brief respite. The sun was setting on the horizon just beyond the wide windows. He leaned against the grand piano and watched it, relaxing for the first time all afternoon. He heard a soft footfall behind him then and turned to see who was there.

"Oh," June said, stopping in her tracks. "I didn't know anyone was in here."

She looked lovely as ever, and it still had power over him, much as he might not want to admit it to himself. He didn't quite know what to say to her. He just shook his head and moved toward the door, intending to leave.

"Wait," she said. "Stay a moment. I'll fix you a drink."

"I'm not sure that's the best idea."

"Albus, please. Sit."

He complied, and she went over to the bar and began filling glasses with ice. "What would you like?"

"Whatever you're having is fine."

"Don't be polite."

"Fine, then. Scotch, two ice cubes."

She raised an eyebrow, surprised, but made it anyway and made a second for herself.

"I'm not sure why," he said while her back was turned, "but it's suddenly quite important to your husband that we all patch things up."

"It is important to him, very important. He's tired of being haunted by our past mistakes," she sounded terribly sad, but he couldn't see her face. "And, honestly, so am I." She handed him the scotch and sat down beside him. "I remember a time when you wouldn't touch this stuff."

He hadn't been this close to her in years. He noticed she still wore the same perfume.

"I still prefer something sweet, but I've found it's better not to admit that in polite company."

"We've both changed a lot, haven't we?"

"And some things," he said, watching the expression on her face carefully, "some things don't change at all."

"I guess maybe they don't." She wouldn't quite look at him, looking instead down at the ice in her drink. After a moment, she said, "Do you think you can ever forgive us?" She reached for his hand, and he didn't push her away. "Maybe someday?"

He looked down at their hands, her fingers curled around his. "Maybe someday. Maybe someday I can even forgive myself."

He looked up at her again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "It's hurt me, you know, these last few years, knowing that you hated me so much."

He really had. He'd been so angry, with her, with Hayden, with himself, with the whole world. But now, seeing her here, still hurting for him after so long, it was hard to keep hating her.

He felt suddenly very, very tired.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I can't say I'm sorry for all of it, but I'm sorry we wound up this way. I'm sorry for hurting you so badly."

He didn't reply. She stood, silhouetted against the doorway, her jewelry glowing in the lamplight. "I'm glad you came tonight; so is Hayden. It's long past time we all tried to put this to rights."

"I can't make any promises, you know," he said. "But I will try."

"To someday then," she said, finishing her drink, and walked through the open door.


End file.
